


The Empty House (A Game of Hearts pt. 7)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: This is the final story in this series, and it borrows quite a bit from Sir Arthur's "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House." It jumps around in time a bit, but hopefully it isn't confusing.Again, all these stories were written after the first series (season) and therefore do not reflect anything that happens in subsequent seasons. Think of it as an alternate timeline if you like.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final story in this series, and it borrows quite a bit from Sir Arthur's "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House." It jumps around in time a bit, but hopefully it isn't confusing.
> 
> Again, all these stories were written after the first series (season) and therefore do not reflect anything that happens in subsequent seasons. Think of it as an alternate timeline if you like.

THE WRITE-UP IN the guidebook read:

WEALD HOUSE  
Also known as the Holmes-Watson house, Weald House was built in 1760 by Charles Baskerville of the neighboring Corring estate as a wedding gift to his daughter Sophie Baskerville Knill. In 1843, Robert Baskerville deeded the house to Siger Holmes as a form of payment for help with an unspecified problem at Corring Hall. The Holmes family continued to occupy Weald House until the death of the last heir, who left it to Dr. John Watson. All proceeds from tours and events held at Weald House go directly toward upkeep of the house and grounds. Housekeeper Maude Grossman bakes fresh scones daily, and the Christmas festivities are not to be missed. Owner occupied April 1–Sept 30. Open Oct 1–March 31 for house tours, guided horseback rides and special occasions.

~*~

HE’D TOLD MYCROFT to keep the house, but of course Mycroft had not been interested in anything John had to say. He’d told Gerrie to stay for as long as she wanted, and although she’d been more gracious than her surviving son, six days after they’d laid the marker at the family crypt (Sherlock’s body had not been recovered from the Falls), she had packed herself off to her sister’s home in Yorkshire, taking Jeremy with her.

So he’d hired Mrs. Grossman through an agency and a service to come regularly to tend the grounds. And when he’d found himself strangely reluctant to dissolve the stables as he’d originally intended, John had hired Tim, the teenage son of a local farmer, to see to the horses.

He’d spent that first summer at Weald House because it required less effort to stay than to go, and also it seemed better than trying to function normally around people. John had not wanted to hear the condolences that were sure to come from every quarter; he hadn’t wanted to answer the questions that would be hanging unspoken over everyone’s heads.

So he’d holed himself up as much as the curiosity of the locals had allowed, Mrs. Grossman running a decidedly ineffective interference. The Baskervilles—the new ones, a husband and wife with two bored-looking teenagers—had come to express their sympathies. And Mr. Stoke and the Bazeltons and a parade of others who had been prepared, John thought, to dislike him as a new-come interloper but had gone away seemingly satisfied with his manners. A solider and a doctor, who could fault that? And if he wasn’t a Holmes, well, he’d almost been, if only there had been more time.

Sherlock had said yes, after all.

Or, if John were being completely truthful, Sherlock had said, “All right.” But with no hesitation. That must be worth something, had to be because it was all John had now, Weald House and all Sherlock’s personalty and assets notwithstanding.

He’d spent that first summer sleeping in Sherlock’s old room, despite the gloomy décor that did nothing to lift his mood, because it still smelled a little like him with his soaps in the bath and his leather riding boots in the corner. But when the ache of expecting Sherlock to turn the corner any moment became too severe, John had moved into the master suite, which he’d stripped of scarlet and dressed in soothing shades of cobalt and royal blue touched with gold and silver. Sleeping there was like sleeping inside the night sky, and there were days—like this one—when John wished he could float there indefinitely, cradled by the cosmos.

Because it was the Fourth of May.

Again.

Two years down, and John did not like to contemplate how many more might lie ahead.

To be fair, the pain had started more than a week before, on the twenty-fourth of April. That had been the day they’d left London.

And it had grown sharper on the twenty-sixth, the day John had given Sherlock the ring.

Then had come May first, which had been the day Sherlock had said, “All right.”

And the night of May third, which had been the best night of John’s life, though looking back now he could see how Sherlock had hidden everything from him.

So the Fourth of May—and he always thought of it that way, in capitals, rather like the Ides of March—was really nothing more than the exit wound from a bullet that had taken ten days to pass through his body. And John had a history of surviving bullet wounds.

He’d finally taken the ring off this past January, had debated mailing it back to Mycroft but hadn’t made it that far yet. For now it remained in its box in the table beside John’s bed at Baker Street. He kept meaning to remove it to Sherlock’s old room and put it with everything that was stored there (all the things he still needed to sort through), but he only ever remembered when he was somewhere else.

Like Weald House.

And why was he here? He’d come the second spring and summer with the idea that he should check up on things and ended up staying because London had suffered a terrible heat wave that John had not been eager to join. And now even the guidebooks said he lived at Weald House half the year. So here he was again, as expected, though he wasn’t sure if he’d stay as long. There was Eoin to consider, after all, and while the relationship was too new to withstand any serious pressure or intensity, it was also too new to survive without some regular tending, which John couldn’t do if he stayed all summer in the country.

And he certainly couldn’t bring Eoin out to the house. He hadn’t even brought his sister; hell, he hadn’t even told Harry about Weald House. Or his parents for that matter, though he felt guilty about that.

But for now, for today, it was right he should be there. He would ride out and visit Sherlock (he’d learned to ride because it was the fastest way to get around the area, particularly when the roads were mucked up from rain; he liked to think Sherlock would have been pleased), and then there was paperwork to be done for the Historical Heritage Committee that handled the house tours, a list of things to be addressed for the house’s upkeep, and there would almost certainly be at least one local emergency that would send someone riding to Weald House in need of the neighborhood doctor. Just the day before, little Nancy Bazelton had been bit by a dog and they’d brought her to John’s doorstep as if she might die of it, leaving him to wonder what they’d done before he lived there and while he was away.

Shower first, though, before Mrs. Grossman came up to clean.

~*~

MRS. GROSSMAN LISTENED for the running water, to be followed by the stereo being played too loud. Mr. John, as she called him, was like clockwork. Once the stereo was off again, he’d be down for his breakfast and out the door for some air. He’d be back for lunch, then in the office or the library for the afternoon. She’d bring him his tea, and that was the time of day she could chat with him about goings on at the house. Sometimes it was business and sometimes it was just gossip, but he always listened, and if something needed doing, he saw it done. He was a good man, Mr. John was.

That day saw Mr. John off to the stables after breakfast, and after clearing the dishes, Mrs. Grossman was on her way to see to his room when there came a knock at the door. Being not at all a young lady, it took Mrs. Grossman some little time to turn herself around on the stairs and come down again.

There was generally only one kind of caller when Mr. John was in residence: someone in need of a doctor. Oh, occasionally someone from the neighborhood would come by for a short visit, usually to extend an invitation to something or other, but it was too early in the day for that kind of thing. In either case, it would be someone from the area—which is why Mrs. Grossman was utterly surprised to find a stranger on the doorstep.

“Can I help you?” Mrs. Grossman asked the man, squinting up at him and wondering if maybe his car had stalled or he was lost.

“I’d like a tour of the house,” he said.

Mrs. Grossman clucked with regret. “We don’t do tours when Mr., that is, Dr. Watson is at home.”

“Ah,” the man said, stepping back and gazing longingly up the front of the house, “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve come a very long way, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Grossman, who prided herself on her good manners and never liked disappointing people, “I should say the least I could do is offer you some tea before you go.”

“Really?”

The man looked so hopeful, Mrs. Grossman was moved to add, “And if we stop in a few rooms on the way to the kitchen, I’m sure the good doctor wouldn’t mind.”

The man smiled and winked conspiratorially, putting Mrs. Grossman to the blush.

“Is he in? The, uh, doctor?” the man asked as he stepped into the entry.

“Out for a ride,” said Mrs. Grossman, misinterpreting the reason for her guest’s interest. “He won’t be back until lunch, I wouldn’t think.”

This information nearly caused Sherlock to drop his façade. “He rides?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“Didn’t at the start,” Mrs. Grossman said, throwing her visitor a curious look, “but around here it’s the most reliable mode of transportation. Now,” she went on, leading him into the drawing room, “if you would just sign the guest book.”

Sherlock paused, then did as she asked with a small smile, wondering if she’d look, but she didn’t. Instead she stood there and beamed and pointed out the finer features of the room, and Sherlock pretended it was all new and interesting to him.

Then Mrs. Grossman said something about the drawing room being where they held weddings when the weather didn’t cooperate, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from sharply echoing, “Weddings?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Grossman with evident pride. “Weald House is very popular for that kind of thing. Parties and weddings, and at Christmas we—” But now the man was frowning so deeply, she thought it best not to go on about it. “Over here is the morning room,” she said, switching gears and bustling across the hall.

Sherlock trailed dutifully after her throughout the rest of the downstairs without any further outbursts, and at last they came to the kitchen, at which point Mrs. Grossman instructed him to have a seat while she put on some tea.

“I don’t suppose I could get a peek at the gallery,” Sherlock hazarded when she brought over the tray.

Mrs. Grossman hesitated. Downstairs was one thing, but to take a stranger upstairs seemed like crossing a line. Yet the gallery was one of the finest features of the house.

Sherlock noted her oscillation. “I hear it’s quite lovely, and unique for running from the front to the rear of the house instead of the length of it.”

“True enough,” Mrs. Grossman acknowledged. “There are a few great houses with such galleries, but it’s not common.”

“I see you have a love of historical homes,” said Sherlock, and Mrs. Grossman turned rosy with pleasure.

“I’ve always loved working in houses like this,” she said.

“And is the doctor a good man to work for?”

“Oh, he’s perfectly lovely, really. A bit jealous of his privacy,” she added with a meaningful look.

“Then perhaps I should be on my way,” Sherlock said, rising from the table.

Mrs. Grossman stole a glance out the windows that gave onto the pond. “Just a quick look,” she said sternly as she stood to lead him upstairs. She brought him into the gallery at the front of the house, where above the fireplace hung the portrait of Sophie Baskerville Knill, her husband Richard Knill, and their daughter Isabelle. But even as she began her memorized spiel, she saw that her guest’s attention was riveted to the portraits displayed opposite over the second fireplace on the far side of the room.

There were two of them, which Mrs. Grossman had always thought looked odd and overcrowded, but Mr. John refused to have it any other way, and they made for a good conversation piece on the tour.

On the right was the portrait of the last Holmes family member to own the house, a young man of about twenty standing in front of the portico, a horse behind him, the reins in his hand. And to the left of that was the portrait of Mr. John, also in front of the portico, him leaning against one of the columns, but on the other side, so that when viewed next to one another the two paintings made a full picture.

“My God,” Sherlock breathed.

“Nice, aren’t they?” asked Mrs. Grossman. “That one is Mr.—Dr. Watson,” she hastily amended, “and the other one is . . .” Mrs. Grossman turned from the paintings to the visitor and back again. “You didn’t say you were a relation?”

Sherlock offered her a blank stare.

“There’s a striking resemblance,” Mrs. Grossman insisted.

Sherlock’s eyes skimmed the rows of portraits that marched along the walls of the room. “He was the last of the family?” he asked, not quite able to bring himself to take another look.

“The last heir,” said Mrs. Grossman. “He left everything to the doctor when he died. Had a brother, but there was some bad blood there. Are you a cousin of some sort?” she pressed.

“Something like that,” Sherlock murmured, turning blindly for the door. Was there dust in the room? Why did his eyes hurt? “I should go . . .”

“Are you well?” Mrs. Grossman asked. “I could fetch the doctor; he really wouldn’t mind.”

“No,” answered Sherlock a tad too severely, and so he forced himself to add in a more polite tone, “Thank you, but . . . no.”

Mrs. Grossman did not appear entirely satisfied with this response, but she also had no way of making the man stay if he didn’t want to, so she walked him back downstairs, though she stopped short of opening the door just yet. “Maybe you should just rest a minute, have something to eat.”

Sherlock smiled, small but genuine. He smiled because this woman was kind, and he liked the thought of her taking care of John. John deserved that much.

“I shouldn’t,” he told her now. “It’s a long way back, and I wouldn’t want to disrupt the household.”

Mrs. Grossman opened her mouth to assure the man yet again that it would be no trouble (she didn’t like the idea of him going away unwell; what if he fell ill on the road and there were an accident?), when the sound of the kitchen door being forced open then shut again resounded down the hallway, followed by the sound of riding boots on the stone flooring. “Mrs. Grossman?” John called. “Did we find a carpenter to fix that door? Oh, tea.”

Mr. John had evidently found the remainder of the refreshment she’d offered their guest. Mrs. Grossman looked again at the stranger, who had lost all his color now. “There,” she told him, “it’ll be no bother at all to have Dr. Watson take a look at you.”

~*~

_26 April  
Two Years Earlier_

JOHN KNEW HE was trying the patience of the sales assistant, but this was perhaps the most important purchase he’d ever made, and it needed to be perfect.

He’d narrowed it down at least. After taking into account everything he knew about Sherlock—the way he dressed (well but not overstated), his watch (expensive but not flashy), his furniture (elegant but not ornate)—John was relatively certain he could find the right ring.

“You have beautiful hands,” the woman behind the counter remarked.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” John replied absently. The three final candidates were lined up on the glass in front of him as he mentally weighed the pros and cons of each and tried to picture Sherlock wearing them.

“But you already have a lovely ring,” the woman pointed out.

“Hm? Oh, it’s not—” John silently damned whatever it was in him that caused him to blush so readily. “That one,” he decided all at once.

“What size?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted, thinking furiously. He looked at his own hands. “His fingers are skinnier than mine,” he said. “I think. Not by much, though.”

The sales assistant smiled and reached for John’s hand, which led him to reflect that people grabbing his hands was becoming rather common.

She brought out a large silver hoop with many smaller rings of various sizes looped onto it and neatly selected one of them, which she slid onto John’s right ring finger. It fit almost perfectly. “So if you’re a . . .” Her voice trailed as she removed the ring and studied it as if reading something. “Then he’s maybe . . .?” She held up another ring for John’s inspection.

John obediently scrutinized it; he wanted to get this right. “Go down one more,” he said.

She held up the next smaller size and after a minute of considering, John nodded. “That looks right.”

But the moment she disappeared to fetch the correct size, John was flooded with doubts. What if it didn’t fit? Worse, what if Sherlock didn’t like it? He supposed he should have let Sherlock pick it out on his own, that would have been easier, but it seemed like cheating somehow.

Ah, well, it was done. Sherlock could return it on their way out of town if he wanted. John wasn’t sure what town they were in any more; they’d looped back to Brussels the first night and been in Luxembourg after that. They’d darted into and out of France, mainly sticking to less traveled roads before ending up in larger cities by nightfall. For someone who’d been so keen to go to Switzerland, Sherlock was taking his time in getting there.

John slipped the ring box into his jacket pocket and wandered toward the little city’s center. Checking his watch he saw he had some time before he was supposed to meet Sherlock at a local café, Sherlock having gone off to get them new mobile phones. So John meandered a bit, unconsciously fiddling with the box, thumbing it slightly open only to allow it to snap closed again until it gave him a start by pinching him.

“What are you doing?”

John jumped again at the sound of Sherlock’s voice behind him. “Nothing,” he snapped, “I just—” He glanced down at his thumb. “Pinched myself.”

Sherlock gave him a strange look, remarkably similar to the ones Mycroft sometimes threw at him. But all he said was, “Phone?”

John accepted the proffered mobile, but even as he flipped it open, Sherlock said, “Don’t call anyone.”

“Well then what’s the point of a phone?” John asked.

“I’ve put my and Mycroft’s numbers in yours. They are the only numbers you should use.”

Knowing it would be useless to argue, and to do anything but what he was told would only cost him another phone, John sighed and slipped the cell into his pocket.

“I need to know you understand this, John.”

“What? Yes, fine, whatever,” John growled testily.

“You must be hungry,” said Sherlock.

“What makes you say that?”

“You always get irritable when you’re hungry.”

John scowled, in large part because Sherlock was correct as usual. John hated being predictable.

“Come on,” Sherlock continued, sounding much like a man calling a dog, “café is this way.” He strode forward and after taking a moment to bite back his resentment, John followed.

John waited until they were seated beneath one of the oversized umbrellas and had their meals in front of them before setting the box next to Sherlock’s plate. “Here.”

Sherlock’s chewing slowed and he swallowed. “What is it?”

“Just open it.”

But John found himself unable to watch, so he trained his eyes on the people passing along the pavement and played a game with himself in trying to ascertain which were locals and which might be tourists.

“It’s . . . perfect.”

John turned. “You sound surprised.”

“I am, actually.”

John closed his eyes and gave his head a small shake. “Ah, God,” he sighed, “why do I bother?”

“It even fits,” Sherlock said as he slipped the band onto his finger. He eyed John appreciatively. “You’ve become an apt pupil in the science of deduction.”

“I’m sure I could ask for no higher praise,” John replied, going back to his sandwich.

“What were your determining factors?” Sherlock persisted.

“Really?” John retorted. “That’s the most important thing to you right now, how I chose the ring?”

“I thought it might be . . . diverting . . .” Sherlock answered uncertainly, and John immediately felt sorry for snapping at him. He’d forgotten that Sherlock didn’t deal in emotion the same way most people did; when overwhelmed, Sherlock went back to what he considered solid ground, which for him was logic and reasoning. The fact that he was attempting to draw John in with him only proved his underlying sentiment, in a backward sort of way. So John indulged him by explaining how he’d settled on the band of brushed and antiqued gold trimmed in tiny strips of platinum.

“It was the shape that did it in the end,” John concluded. The ring was not rounded in the typical fashion; instead a trick of the molding gave it the illusion of being slightly concave around the middle. “It’s perfectly elegant but just a little bit eccentric, kind of like you.”

For a moment John couldn’t tell whether this statement had flattered or annoyed his companion, but then Sherlock blinked and said, “Thank you,” and John let out a small sigh of relief.

Then, clearing his throat, Sherlock said, “Are you done yet? We should go soon.”

And with that, they were off once again. But all things taken into account, it had been a good day.

~*~

JOHN HAD TAKEN his time walking to the stables, trying to enjoy the fresh, warm air without thinking too much about the person who was not there to share it. Whenever his mind turned in that direction (and it happened less often now than it used to, which was still more than it probably should), the grief rose up around him like icy water and he felt as if his heart was grinding to a halt. Sherlock’s absence was John’s loss, but John couldn’t help but also consider all that Sherlock was missing, including beautiful spring mornings that were perfect for riding. The idea of Sherlock lying somewhere dark and cold, removed from sunlight and the pleasures of everyday life, choked and paralyzed John; it simultaneously made him feel incapable of living and drove him to live more.

Despite his mental detour, John arrived at the stables, and finding Tim in the paddock, he paused to chat. Another way to divert his mind for a while. Magdalena would foal soon, Sovereign was recovering from something John had never heard of, and Mr. Stoke had asked if Augustus was ready to stud his mare.

“Is he?” John asked with a grimace; he knew nothing about these things. _Sherlock would know_ , he thought, then silently corrected his tense: _Sherlock would have known._ Even two years gone, Sherlock was smarter.

“I should think so,” said Tim, “but I don’t think the price Mr. Stoke is offering is very fair.”

John shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. Feel free to make the arrangements.”

“There will be paperwork,” Tim warned.

“That’s what Benson is for,” John told him, referring to his solicitor, who had been Sherlock’s as well. “But I’ll have him talk to you before agreeing to anything.”

Tim turned pink around the ears with pleasure at John’s faith in him, and John was in turn gratified to see he’d said and done the right things. Tim might be young, but he knew the ins and outs of managing a stable, and John wanted him to feel valued.

John wondered if maybe he were finally getting the hang of running a house, even if he did only have two employees and a glorified lawn service.

“Whom should I take out today?” John asked. They tried to rotate through the horses so each got a chance to stretch his legs outside the paddock. Though there were some that John was not yet experienced enough to ride.

“Tiberius is due for a turn,” said Tim. “Say, what do you think of the name Constantine if Magdalena throws a colt?”

“Sounds suitable. What if it’s a girl?”

Tim scratched his chin. “Kind of think it’ll be a boy.”

John left it at that and continued on to the stable. He led Tiberius from his stall and had him saddled and ready to go before realizing he’d forgotten his gloves. He briefly considered going without them but worried the reins might give him blisters.

Not wanting to leave Tiberius saddled and waiting, John untacked him and returned him to his stall. “Be right back,” he promised the horse before walking back up to the house.

When he got there, he had trouble with the kitchen door sticking again. It was on his list of things to take care of before tours began in the fall; hadn’t he already called someone? “Mrs. Grossman?” he called. “Did we find a carpenter to fix that door? Oh, tea.” This last part was more to himself as his eyes fell on the tea tray that sat on the kitchen table. Two cups.

“Mrs. Grossman?” John called again as he went to the doorway that connected the kitchen to the rest of the house. He was reluctant to wear his boots any farther than that and had been hoping the housekeeper could run up and get his gloves for him, so saving him from having to remove his footwear altogether. But now the two teacups had him curious. “Did we have company?”

From down the hall came the low sound of Mrs. Grossman’s voice; she was talking to someone, but John couldn’t make out the words. There was a murmured response, and a click as the front door opened. Mrs. Grossman’s tone rose. She sounded pleading, or perhaps concerned. Nothing new for his housekeeper, who had a hair trigger response to any perceived problem. But now John’s interest was piqued; who would come to the house and then leave without so much as a greeting?

And then John hesitated as a thought occurred to him. What if Mrs. Grossman had a suitor?

It made sense in a strange way. John wouldn’t normally return to the house this early; it would be the perfect time for a beau to stop in for some tea. And now he was leaving in a hurry and she was probably worried about repercussions.

Wanting to make it clear that he was fine with her having a guest—and also a little curious to meet the object of Mrs. Grossman’s affection—John braved the hallway despite his boots.

When he came to the point at which he could see around the staircase to the entry, he first saw Mrs. Grossman holding the left forearm of a man who, in one glance John could see, was too young to be a suitor for her. He was turned toward the open door, and she was speaking earnestly to him, cajoling it seemed, but why? Something in the turn of the man’s head and the set of his shoulders gave John a brief pang, but he had become used to these moments; it wasn’t the first time a stranger had reminded him of Sherlock, and it wasn’t likely to be the last.

And then John’s eyes fell on the hand, the man’s left hand, held immobile by Mrs. Grossman’s determined grasp on his arm, and John’s vision went cloudy and grey around the edges.

“—can’t be driving if you’re not well,” Mrs. Grossman was saying in her low and rapid voice, though it seemed to John to be echoing down a long tunnel. Then she turned, saw her employer and visibly brightened. “See, here he is now. Mr. John . . .” But she stopped uncertainly when she saw John’s expression.

The muscles in the man’s back relaxed as he resigned himself and turned around.

“Hello, John.”

_Breathe_ , John commanded himself. _If you don’t breathe, you’ll faint. And if you fall and hit your head . . ._ Still he felt himself listing to his right, rocking as the house moved beneath him. He heard Mrs. Grossman yelp in alarm—had there been an earthquake?—and then there were hands on him, steadying him, but he couldn’t focus; his vision remained fuzzy. “Is everyone all right?” John asked thickly, or tried to, but he couldn’t be sure the words came out correctly.

“He’s in shock,” the person holding John said, and the sound of the familiar voice made him feel as if his throat were closing; he couldn’t get air. “Walk, John, here to the library. Mrs. Grossman, fetch him some water, if you please.”

John understood he was being guided; he looked down and was able to focus on the floor right in front of his feet. It seemed uneven. The earthquake had done some damage, apparently; he hoped the foundation was sound. “Should check . . .” he began, because he was sure there was something he should check, probably many things, much work to be done. But he couldn’t pull the words together.

The swath of tile from the main hall transformed into the dark green rug of the library, and all at once John was so tired he wanted to lie down on the floor and take a nap. He started to fall forward, but the hands were still there, holding him, preventing him, an obstruction to blissful oblivion.

Finally, John lifted his head. Blinked his vision clear.

“Sit,” Sherlock instructed gently, and Mrs. Grossman entered with a tray weighted with a pitcher of iced water, two glasses, and some bread with butter.

And suddenly understanding there had been no earthquake—at least not in the ordinary sense—John collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

WHILE MRS. GROSSMAN flapped her hands in agitation, Sherlock maneuvered John onto the Victorian sofa; not the most comfortable place, perhaps, but better than the floor. He then instructed the housekeeper to open the windows as he unbuttoned John’s shirt (holding himself to the two topmost buttons, despite enormous temptation to go farther) and loosened his breeches (and here, checking that Mrs. Grossman’s back was still turned as she pulled back drapes and unfastened panes, Sherlock allowed his hand to linger a little longer).

Sherlock knew he should leave but worried that doing so would only make things worse for John. If not for Mrs. Grossman, there might be the chance John could ascribe what had happened to a dream, or even a very vivid hallucination. But the housekeeper stood witness, and though she didn’t know everything, she knew enough. Hearing her side of things would only cause John to question and doubt. Sherlock couldn’t see leaving John with that kind of uncertainty hanging over him.

So Sherlock perched himself on a chair he’d positioned beside the sofa and waited, watching the way John’s eyelids trembled and chest rose and fell, irregularly at first but slowly settling into a normal rhythm. He checked John’s pulse and found it steady. It wouldn’t be long. In the meantime, Sherlock drank in the sight of him; he hadn’t expected to have the opportunity.

“I can’t think what came over him,” said Mrs. Grossman as she returned to stand beside the sofa. “He’s not given to spells.”

Sherlock knew exactly what had come over John but wasn’t about to volunteer the information. Though he privately applauded Mrs. Grossman for defense of her employer.

“Good thing you were here,” she went on, and Sherlock deducted a few points for lack of observation. Anyone who’d been paying attention should have been able to put at least a fair amount of the puzzle together. And anyone who’d done that would not have thanked Sherlock for being present.

On the sofa, John inhaled deeply, held the breath for a moment, then released it slowly before opening his eyes.

“John, love,” Sherlock said, not caring now whether Mrs. Grossman heard.

The eyes slid toward the sound of his voice, and seeing him, John drew himself up and back as if trying to pull into the corner of the sofa. “No,” he said. “No. You—you don’t get to call me that any more.”

Sherlock withdrew, sitting farther back in the chair, and John watched as the face—the face he thought he’d never see again in life—fell blank. “Mrs. Grossman, please give us a minute.”

Mrs. Grossman, who was starting to see which way the wind was blowing, shot Sherlock a look that suggested she’d like to give him something a lot less pleasant than a minute alone with her employer, but Sherlock didn’t see it. So she turned to John, a question on her face.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Grossman,” John assured her, then darting a look at Sherlock, added, “but leave the door open.”

The instruction had the desired effect; Sherlock’s mask slipped and his expression sharpened as he tried to read John’s intentions, but John stayed resolutely stony. This was, when dealing with Sherlock, the equivalent of being on higher ground.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock deduced. 

“I’m not—I don’t know what I am,” said John. “I’m—I’m confused, and . . .” He tried to trace his feelings to their roots, but all the wires inside him were crossed.

“But not happy to see me.”

“No. Yes. No and yes. I . . .”

“I missed you,” Sherlock told him, and John looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“You _missed_ me? You’ve been dead for two years, or might as well have been, and you come here to tell me you missed me? You could have saved yourself the trouble, and me some—What kind of person does that?” he asked abruptly, his voice rising. “What kind of person puts someone they profess to care about through something like that? It’s . . . deranged.”

“There was no other way, John. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

John raised his eyebrows at what he considered a severe understatement.

“I just . . . I wanted to know you were well. Mycroft tells me things, but . . .”

“Mycroft? _Mycroft_ knows?”

“Not at first,” Sherlock said. “But eventually I needed funds, and I couldn’t tap into what I’d left to you; it would have been noticed.” He sighed. “I was only stopping by; I didn’t mean for you to see me.”

“Oh, you were going to let me keep believing you were dead, well, that makes it all better. Apology accepted.”

Sherlock rose. “I should go.”

“What?” John asked, thrown. “You can’t just—”

“I’ve compromised myself by coming. Any minute now I’ll have a call from Mycroft.”

“But where have you been? What—?”

“Another time,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, and will there be another time?” John asked. “Should I mark two years from now in my datebook?”

Sherlock winced and looked away, toward the windows where the east lawn lay in a stretch of sunlight, mockingly serene. Some days Sherlock thought it would be nice to be dead and buried, resting in peace. He took a deep breath and asked what he most wanted to know, the question that had brought him home almost the moment Mycroft had sent him the news: “Do you like him?”

John did not follow Sherlock’s train of thought. “What? Who?”

“This . . . Eoin. Do you like him as much as you liked me?”

John didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock knew about Eoin.

“I like him,” John admitted, watching Sherlock’s face keenly. “But I loved you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the words. Because, yes, he’d gone to Weald House to see that John was well, but he’d also gone to see if there was any evidence of John’s affection for this new arrival. Pictures? Or worse, was Eoin himself at the house? He’d been relieved to discover that quite the opposite was true, that much at Weald House acted as testimony to John’s devotion to Sherlock. Though it troubled Sherlock somewhat to see the ring was absent from John’s finger.

“If you want the house back . . .” John said, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. “And I can be out of Baker Street within the week.”

“I don’t give a damn about the house,” said Sherlock, his relief paving the way to irritation. “God, John, why not grab a handkerchief you can wave while you lie there and wail about how wronged you’ve been? I did it for you, gave up everything for you.”

“For me?” John asked incredulously. “You let me believe you were dead for my own good, is that it?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you mind telling me how that works?”

“You were exhausted, John. I couldn’t keep dragging you all over the globe.”

“So, really, you decided you didn’t need me any more and preferred to go on alone,” said John.

“No, really, I preferred not to watch Moriarty kill you. Which is what he would have done, right before killing me.”

“And yet here you are, not dead at all. Did you suddenly learn to swim?”

“Don’t be mean, John,” said Sherlock. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“What, then?”

“I got lucky. I thought I was going to die but I didn’t. I landed on an outcropping. Broke a couple bones, but at least my neck remained intact.”

John made a sound that Sherlock wasn’t sure was agreement with this valuation.

“I’ve been working for Mycroft the past couple years, doing diplomatic work.”

“You. Diplomatic.”

Sherlock ignored the barb. “And he’s been using the information I had saved on my computer to infiltrate and destroy Moriarty’s network. When that’s done, it will be safe for me to come home.”

“And until then, I’m just supposed to continue pretending you’re dead,” John surmised. He stood only to realize his breeches were loose. “Huh,” he said, refastening them while eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“They suit you,” Sherlock offered.

John only made another noncommittal noise before asking, “Are we d—?” A question he didn’t get the chance to finish because Sherlock’s mouth on his prevented him from speaking.

If he hadn’t been prepared to see Sherlock again, John certainly wasn’t prepared to feel him again. The familiar pressure and heat and smell triggered an almost Pavlovian response, and John found himself returning the kiss even as he was thinking, _No!_ He thought of Eoin, who was so earnest and clumsy, and who, for whatever reason, really liked John. Eoin, who would never pretend to be dead and then travel the world while leaving John to grieve. Life with Eoin would never be terribly exciting, true, but it was safe and it was stable, and it did not require John to carry a gun.

Sensing a change, Sherlock broke off. “John?”

“You should go.”

Sherlock reached up as if to touch John’s cheek but John flinched as if threatened by something hot.

“I don’t belong to you any more. You don’t get to—to take up where you left off as if you hadn’t . . .” John shook his head as if clearing it of something unwanted.

“John . . .”

“Just go!” John shouted, unable to look at his once lover for fear it would break his resolve. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak or swallow and his eyes were burning, but he refused to countenance the tears.

Sherlock hesitated. “All right,” he said softly, setting something on the tray beside the untouched water and bread before exiting. And John didn’t want to look because he knew what it was and what it meant, but his eyes were drawn to it anyway.

Sitting next to the pitcher in a puddle of condensation was a band of brushed and antiqued gold trimmed in two tiny ribbons of platinum.

~*~

_1 May  
Two Years Earlier_

“JOHN,” SAID SHERLOCK, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

John stirred reluctantly against what had become his least favorite part of their developing routine. “Too early,” he mumbled, trying to burrow under his pillow.

Sherlock lifted the cushion unsympathetically. “If you’re quick, you’ll have time to shower.”

Watching John resignedly pull himself from the bed without further argument, Sherlock reflected on his beloved’s determination to endure despite his obvious exhaustion; John, Sherlock knew, would follow him doggedly for as long as he allowed, though it didn’t seem fair to drag John on.

“You’re a good man, John,” Sherlock said as John gathered his clothes to bring into the bathroom.

John paused in his task and gave Sherlock an odd look. “Marry me, then,” he said, flinging a t-shirt over his shoulder and half wondering if he would need his jacket. It had been warm the day before, but there was no better way to carry his gun.

“All right.”

John stopped again, visibly startled by Sherlock’s response, and before he could question it—or rescind his proposal—Sherlock continued, “But we’ll have to let Irene have a hand in the planning, else she’ll never forgive us.”

“Okay,” John answered rather stupidly, in the way of a person who has been concussed and is no longer sure what is happening.

Sherlock made a point of looking at his watch. “If you don’t shower soon, we won’t have time for breakfast.”

“Okay,” John said again before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to wonder if he’d been too hasty. But after what had to be one of the fastest showers on record (and Sherlock presumed this was because John wanted to eat; John always woke up hungry), John emerged and said, “We should have it at the house.”

Sherlock had the bags packed and waiting. “Hm? What house?”

“Weald House. It has that nice open area right there on the side.”

“The east lawn?” Sherlock considered. There were noteworthy advantages, primarily how much his mother would love the idea, and how much Mycroft would hate it. “It could work.” He watched John take up his bag and added, “Though after all this, I’m sure you’ll want to stay home for the honeymoon.”

~*~

SHERLOCK HAD NOT been in the car two minutes before his phone rang and Mycroft was shouting. Or as close to shouting as he ever came.

“You should be in Istanbul right now,” Mycroft told him, “and instead I’m getting reports that you are not only in the country, which we agreed was not a good idea, but you’re at Weald House.”

“I’m just leaving,” Sherlock responded dully.

“You’re to go straight to Heathrow,” Mycroft instructed then swore an oath. “They’ll have seen you, you realize.”

Sherlock’s heart gave a little flutter of panic, though not for his own sake. “They have no reason to be watching John.”

“ _We’re_ watching him,” said Mycroft, leaving the conclusion unspoken and hanging.

“Then I need to go warn him,” Sherlock said.

“You’ll do no such thing. You’re in more danger than he is. Istanbul,” Mycroft reminded. “I’m almost done cleaning house of Moriarty’s people, but you’ve just made my job that much more difficult. What in blazes came over you?”

Sherlock stubbornly pressed his lips together, even though Mycroft couldn’t see. But Mycroft had construed the motivation for Sherlock’s visit. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Told me what?” Sherlock asked, working to keep his tone even.

“About that boy. Eoin. What, you expected him to stay alone forever?”

“If you’d worked faster . . .” said Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. “It’s like an onion. Every time we think we’ve got it, we find another layer. Where are you now?”

“A couple hours out. You’ll watch John?”

“Your pet will be well cared for,” Mycroft assured dryly. “I’ll have your—”

But Sherlock interrupted with, “Oh, for . . .”

“What is it?” Mycroft asked sharply.

“Someone’s moving livestock across the lane.”

“What? Who? You can’t let anyone we know see you.”

“I won’t,” said Sherlock.

“Don’t get out of the car.”

“I’m not. I’m turning around.”

“That’ll take you out of the way,” Mycroft groused. “It’ll take you twice as long to get to the airport.”

“There’s only one road, Mycroft, so unless you want to send a helicopter.”

“As I was saying,” Mycroft went on with a minimum of good manners, “I’ll have your ticket waiting for you at the kiosk.”

“Fine. Don’t wait up,” Sherlock told him and disconnected the call.


	3. Chapter 3

JOHN DID ONE lap around the library, then another. Everything he’d believed over the previous two years had been cast in a new light. Even that first moment of leaning over the waterfall—Sherlock had been down there, somewhere, lying injured, and John hadn’t known it. Shouldn’t he have? Shouldn’t he have sensed it somehow?

John ran his hands over his face. He needed to focus on more practical matters. The house wasn’t his now, not really; he should pack up and go back to London, start sorting things out there. Sherlock was gone for now, but who knew when he might be back? John couldn’t see staying at Baker Street, waiting. He needed to clear out and start over. He needed some distance.

Even if he didn’t want it.

Because he’d wanted to go, hadn’t he? Of course he had. He’d wanted nothing more than to follow Sherlock out the door and go with him.

_You are_ that _stupid_ , John marveled, _and_ that _pathetic, to want to be where you’re so clearly not welcome._

But Sherlock was the best time he’d ever had. Life without him was boring.

And when John had believed there was no alternative to living without Sherlock because Sherlock had been dead (or so John thought), John had eased himself back into the stream of the normal world and managed to pull off a fair imitation of someone with a life of his own.

But could he do that now, knowing Sherlock was alive somewhere?

And did he have a choice?

Sherlock had gone to no small length to cut him loose, after all. Some vacuous promise to return didn’t amount to much; Sherlock could stay away indefinitely if he so desired.

That line of thought was getting him nowhere, John realized, but he seemed unable to shake free of it.

Distance, then, was the only way. He needed a clear space in which to think and prepare for whatever would happen when Sherlock returned, assuming he did. And so the first point of business: move out of Baker Street.

John went upstairs to change his clothes and pack his things, only to meet Mrs. Grossman as she was stepping out of his room after tidying it. “I have to go back to London for a bit,” he told her. He wanted to assure her he’d be back, but he also didn’t want to lie, so he left it at that.

The housekeeper eyed him shrewdly. “It’s that man,” she said. “One of the old family from what I gathered. Did he give you a hard time?”

John felt the corner of his mouth quirk unexpectedly, though why he found it funny he wasn’t sure. “Just surprised me was all. I will try to be back.” That much, at least, was true.

Mrs. Grossman made for the stairs. “Well, we will miss you. It’s always nice to have you home.”

“Thank you,” said John. “For everything. You’ve been very good to me.”

“No hard work being good to someone who is good to you,” Mrs. Grossman pronounced as she disappeared to the lower level. “I’ll get your lunch started; you should eat before making the drive.”

John stepped into his room, _his_ room, the one he’d so carefully constructed to suit his needs, and resentment began to bubble up once more. He’d come to love that room and that house and the people there, both at Weald House and in the local area. But John also wasn’t any good at lying, and certainly not over any length of time; how could he possibly pretend this was all his when he knew Sherlock was alive?

John gathered his clothes, his toiletries, the couple of books he’d brought with him (Weald House’s library being decidedly dry of interesting titles). Once he thought he had everything, he let his gaze sweep the room, only to have it land on the framed photo propped on the nightstand of Sherlock, age eight, on holiday at the beach. John had brought the picture from the flat for the same reason he’d removed the ring Sherlock had given him. It was a reason he couldn’t entirely articulate, though clichés like “letting go” and “burying the past” sprang to mind. All things Sherlock had seemed to belong in one of two places: his old room at Baker Street or at Weald House. But John saw now that he’d only been playing Persephone, living half the year in London and pretending to be alive and the other half of the year in the pseudo-underworld that was Weald House.

And yet . . . 

He always felt so much more alive at Weald House.

And maybe it was simply the seasons, the sun and fine weather, the endearing company, the good food, the clear air—it might be any of those things or all of them. But John had the feeling those things contributed to some larger sense of wellbeing that he’d come to derive from inhabiting the childhood home of the man he’d loved.

Still loved, he supposed.

And now, looking at the photograph, John didn’t want to leave it. But he knew he shouldn’t take it, either. Not if he was going to accomplish the clean break he needed.  
But if that were strictly true, he should also chuck the ring he’d taken from the downstairs table. And he had no intention of doing that.

Well then, what harm was one photo? If he promised himself he’d put it away somewhere until there came a time he was able to look at it with more fond nostalgia than longing?

He was just lifting it from the table when his cell phone rang, startling him so that he dropped it. The picture bounced off the corner of the nightstand with an audible crack. John sighed and wondered if a higher power was expressing a mute opinion. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and answered.

“Where is he?”

John had no need to ask either who was speaking or about whom he was inquiring. “Mycroft,” he replied, forcing himself to be pleasant. “Always nice to hear from you.”

“Did he come back to see you?” Mycroft demanded.

“He was here and then he left,” said John. “I don’t know where he went after that.”

“He didn’t come back?”

“No . . .”

“Didn’t try to warn you or some such nonsense?” Mycroft pressed.

“No. Why? Is there something I should be warned about?”

“He’s not answering my calls,” Mycroft complained.

_Wonder why_ , John thought. But he merely waited silently to see if there was anything more Sherlock’s brother had to say.

“You try him. If you call, he’ll answer.”

“I don’t have his number,” John replied archly.

Mycroft huffed and began listing the digits, leaving John to scramble for something to write on and with. He ended up using the flyleaf of one of his books after finding a stray pencil in the night table drawer. But in so doing, he accidentally stepped on the fallen photo, furthering the damage.

“Call me back when you’re done,” Mycroft instructed before hanging up.

More peeved than worried now—how was it he’d once again become the go-between for the Holmes brothers?—John dialed the number. No answer. He waited a minute then tried again. Nothing.

He supposed Sherlock might be ignoring his calls as well as Mycroft’s. After all, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Or it was possible Sherlock was simply unable to answer his phone at the moment. In any case, John didn’t relish calling Mycroft with the news. He tried Sherlock’s number a third time, but the result was the same.

John squelched a tiny swell of concern. Sherlock hadn’t wanted John with him and was capable of managing on his own.

But then why was Mycroft so worried?

With a sigh, John rang the older Holmes, fully expecting a tirade but receiving only silence. After waiting a minute for some kind of response, John said, “Well, then, I’ll just be—”

“I need you to find him, John.”

“Sorry?”

“He was on his way to Heathrow but had to turn around on the road. I need you to find out where he went.”

“Don’t you have people for that?” John asked.

“You know him better than anyone,” said Mycroft.

John hesitated. “I was on my way back to London anyway,” he reasoned. “I suppose I could look into it.”

“Good man. Call me as soon as you know anything.”

~*~

SHERLOCK CAME TO in his usual abrupt fashion and discovered he couldn’t see. Blinked. Felt his eyelashes brush against something.

_Blindfold._

“You’re awake under there, I can tell,” someone said before Sherlock could finish assessing his situation. The voice was impossibly familiar. Because Moriarty was dead.

_Supposed to be_ , Sherlock corrected himself. _Just like you._

There was a strangely uneven sound that grew louder as whatever made it came closer, and Sherlock willed himself to remain still when he felt the breath on his face.

“I’ll bet John never told you how pretty you are,” said Moriarty, and Sherlock could almost feel the lips brushing his. “Not his style, is it? But I’m sure he thought it.”

Moriarty drew away, and Sherlock quickly began to roll through the remainder of his mental checklist. His wrists were bound behind him with something strong that pulled at his skin—some kind of industrial tape. Ankles, too, and his shoes and socks had been removed.

“Do you know where you are?” Moriarty asked. “Does it feel familiar?”

Sherlock considered. How far away he was from where he’d been abducted would rely partly on how long he’d been unconscious. Difficult to determine while wearing a blindfold, since he couldn’t tell whether the sun had set yet. They’d grabbed him on the road outside Weald House, roughly two hours from London. He could easily be in London or any of its immediate environs. The Ritz again? But the place didn’t have the closeted and contained smell of a hotel room.

Sherlock moved his head just slightly against whatever he was lying on; something padded that smelled like a memory. Soap? No, shampoo. On a pillow. John’s pillow.

Baker Street. Would Mycroft have people watching the flat? Probably not when John wasn’t in town. And Sherlock knew his brother didn’t have anyone following him because he’d gone to great lengths to avoid it. Pride goeth . . .

He felt Moriarty move in close again. “Do you have any idea what he and his boyfriend do to one other in this bed?” he murmured in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock felt something hard and cold settle in his stomach as he rejected the mental image Moriarty had forcibly conjured. Moriarty was trying to upset him, use emotion against him; he needed to remain focused.

“Have you even seen him, this Eoin?” Moriarty asked conversationally, as if asking whether Sherlock had seen the latest tech gadget. “Here—”

The blindfold was removed, and Sherlock blinked rapidly against the sudden light. The lamps were on in the room, the shades drawn, but Sherlock could also see that some sunlight was filtering in around them. It wasn’t dark out yet.

Suddenly there was a black-and-white image thrust in front of his face. It took Sherlock a second to understand Moriarty was showing him a picture on his cell phone. John and someone Sherlock could only assume was Eoin were exiting a building. Eoin looked young, Sherlock decided; mid- to late twenties? Dark hair and eyes, about an inch shorter than John, and squarely built; “Roman gladiator” came to mind upon seeing him.

But any jealousy Sherlock had been primed to feel was cut by closer examination of the image. Because while Eoin was looking directly at John, even leaning a little toward him, John showed no such inclination—literally or figuratively. John remained stolidly upright and appeared to look past Eoin rather than at him.

The knot inside Sherlock eased somewhat. Assuming the photo was a representation of the relationship as a whole, it indicated more tolerance on John’s part than passion.

“Not really his type,” Sherlock finally said.

Moriarty withdrew the phone, and Sherlock saw what had been making the uneven sound; Moriarty leaned heavily on an elegantly carved cane of dark wood and brass in his right hand. He saw the direction of Sherlock’s gaze and offered a humorless smile. “You’d be amazed at the amount of metal holding me together. It would make airport security a nightmare, if I ever used it.

“As for your sweetheart,” Moriarty went on, “I have it on good authority he’s on his way here now.”

Sherlock’s heart doubled its pace.

“No chance to distract him with a sham medical emergency this time,” Moriarty taunted, his smile growing colder.

“What’s the point, Jim?” Sherlock asked. “Since you know he no longer cares for me.”

“But you still care for him. Don’t deny it,” Moriarty added preemptively. “You wouldn’t have risked coming back if you didn’t. Which is why I’m so going to enjoy hurting him.”

“If it’s me you’re angry with . . .”

Moriarty banged the cane loudly against the floor. “Look at me! You’ve ruined everything! And your brother, clawing away at my life’s work!” Moriarty gritted his teeth, as if biting down on his temper. “Oh, I promised if you kept getting in my way, I would burn the heart out of you, and I. Will. Do. It!”

A growing sense of dread began to wash over Sherlock. It was one thing to have a clever and worthy opponent. It was another entirely to deal with someone who had stepped over the edge of reason.

“And we both know where you keep your heart, don’t we?” Moriarty asked.

Sherlock struggled to keep his expression impassive.

But he couldn’t stop himself from flinching at the sound of a key sliding into the flat’s deadbolt. 

John was home.

~*~

JOHN WAS NO detective, but he was able to spot the place in the road where, thanks to flattened grasses and dirt tracks on the verges, it was obvious a car had turned around. And feeling that it was only fair to make a valid effort in the task Mycroft had given him, he turned around as well to see if he could figure out where the car in question had gone. He traveled some distance in the opposite direction, thinking all the while that he was only getting farther from his destination. And why? Because Sherlock had decided to avoid his brother?

But if there was the chance that Sherlock needed help . . . 

When he came to a place where it appeared several cars had stopped, John pulled over for a better look. He couldn’t make much sense of the tracks, but he counted no fewer than four different sets of tires. He took some pictures with his cell phone and e-mailed them to Mycroft.

_Maybe it was nothing more than some kind of roadside accident_ , John told himself, then argued: _But there isn’t any debris._

John looked up and down the road, but there was simply no way to tell in which direction any of the cars had gone from that point. So feeling somewhat useless, John returned to his own vehicle and went back the way he’d come, headed for London and the Baker Street flat.

By the time he arrived, John had worked himself up into a frothy mixture of worry and resentment. He was worried about what the bizarre weave of tire tracks must mean. And he resented that Sherlock could so easily turn up and shatter his world without sticking around long enough to help glue things back together.

Never mind that John had been the one to send him away.

That was quite beside the point, John thought as he climbed the stairs to the flat. If Sherlock had honestly cared, he wouldn’t have slinked off like a kicked puppy. He’d have fought to stay. Or better yet, wouldn’t have pretended to be dead in the first place.

Though John did feel bad about having kicked the proverbial puppy.

He sighed and thumbed through his keys in search of the one he needed. He couldn’t keep going in circles; it was getting him nowhere. Fine then. He was done with it, at least until Sherlock showed himself willing to stick things out. If that ever happened, he could reevaluate. In the meantime, John refused to get dragged into any more of these exploits.

He slid his key into the lock and opened the door.

Dropped his bag and shrugged free of his jacket.

Decided he would go ahead and make some tea, then most likely order take away a little later since he’d cleared the cupboards and refrigerator before leaving for Weald House, not anticipating such an early return.

But he did have tea, thank goodness.

And was there anything on the telly?

Oh, but he should probably call Mycroft . . .

From where he’d been setting the kettle to boil, John turned around to fetch his phone and found himself knocked to the floor by something small but hard and heavy hitting him on the side of the head.

_A rock?_ John wondered. But as he blinked and focused, he saw the culprit had been the hard brass grip of a wooden cane.

And holding the cane was James Moriarty.

John started to sit up, but the point of the cane planted itself firmly in John’s chest. “Stay there for the moment, if you would,” Moriarty requested. “Now,” he went on when it was clear John would not resist, “if you want to prevent me from opening his veins all over your bedspread, you’ll do as I say.”

John waited. The cane was retracted.

“Have a seat there,” Moriarty said, indicating a chair with a cushioned seat and back but wooden arms and legs. It was a chair John had never liked much, one that had belonged to Sherlock. John had considered getting rid of it several times, but like so many things, it had remained, an artifact of the past.

Now John took a seat in it and watched with undisguised fascination as Moriarty painstakingly took the two or three steps to reach him. It was as if the man’s entire body had become misaligned, nothing moving quite smoothly or in tandem. _I could probably take him_ , John thought, _if I could surprise him. Otherwise I’m no match for the cane._

Then his eyes flicked in the direction of his bedroom. The price for failure would be high.

Moriarty detected the motion of John’s gaze and smiled. “Oh, he’s in there. I’ll reunite you in a minute. I just need to—”

John assumed this was the point at which Moriarty would tie him to the chair. It would likely be John’s only chance to make a move. And obligingly, Moriarty did move forward, but before John understood what was happening, he felt a stinging in his left side.

Moriarty stepped back, still smiling, and John frowned up at him, trying to figure out what the villain was up to.

Then Moriarty raised his eyebrows, and John’s eyes traveled downward to Moriarty’s right hand and the knife that was there, a familiar-looking penknife, Sherlock’s ivory-handled penknife, the one he used to keep on his worktable, the one that John had moved to Sherlock’s room with all his other belongings.

Even as John worked through this mental maze of information, he tasted something strange in his throat, and realized after a moment that it was the coppery flavor of blood.

Moriarty wiped the knife’s blade on his dark trousers, folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “ _Now_ I can tie you up.”

John looked down at his side. The stinging was becoming more pronounced; it seemed almost to burn. “You stabbed me.”

“Merely a precaution,” said Moriarty as he finished with John’s wrists. “It’ll take a while for you to bleed to death from that. And in the meantime, we can have such fun together. Oh! Your hot water is ready.”

The kettle had indeed begun to whistle.

“I think we’ll be able to find a use for that,” Moriarty told John with a wink as he knotted the last of the rope around John’s ankles then ever so slowly stood again and turned toward the kitchenette.

“Have you ever found yourself under a waterfall, John?” Moriarty asked as he returned with the steaming kettle.

~*~

SHERLOCK TESTED THE strength of the tape that bound his wrists. It was strong, but with enough stretching and twisting, Sherlock was sure he’d be able to get it sufficiently loose that he could pull his hands free. The most trying factor being that it would take time as well as effort.

He froze when he heard John yelp in pain, but the noise was cut short. Sherlock waited a minute, listening, but when nothing else happened, he resumed his work.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! This was his fault. If he hadn’t gone to see John, they wouldn’t have bothered him either.

There came another strangled sound from the living room. Sherlock realized that, like a good soldier, John was trying not to cry out, and knowing this only distressed Sherlock more. He worked harder, fighting the tape and ignoring the strain.

At last—and it couldn’t have taken long, though it felt like centuries—he’d stretched the tape enough to manipulate his hands, twisting them to create more room until he could pull them free. Then he carefully unlocked his arms, which had become stiff from being held behind him at an uncomfortable angle. Finally, Sherlock removed the blindfold-turned-gag and freed his ankles, all the while attempting to move as silently as possible.

Gun. He needed John’s gun. It seemed unlikely that John carried it with him regularly any more, so it would almost certainly be in his room somewhere. Sherlock checked the bedside table drawer first but wasn’t terribly surprised to come up empty. _Can’t let the boy find daddy’s firearm_ , Sherlock thought spitefully, taking care not to slam the drawer in frustration.

So the gun would be somewhere Eoin wouldn’t normally have a reason to look. But John wouldn’t keep it too far out of reach, either. John’s sock drawer yielded nothing, but at the top of the closet Sherlock found John’s old medical kit, and in it, amid a collection of implements and old vials, was the gun.

~*~

JOHN HAD KEPT his head lowered so that most of the scalding water ran over his neck and back, though plenty splashed his shoulders and traveled around his neck to his chest.

It was the least of his worries, he supposed, since he was slowly bleeding to death from the stab wound in his lower left side. And now John saw through his lashes that Moriarty was taking the knife out again. Opening it.

“I gave him this knife. Did you know that?”

John hadn’t known that, but he didn’t waste any energy by speaking.

“Sit up!” Moriarty shouted suddenly, and as John lifted his head, he felt the point of the knife being driven into his right shoulder. _Axillary vein_ , John thought haphazardly. _Over 50% mortality rate._

Well, it’d be faster than the gut injury.

John slumped forward again, too tired to hold himself upright any more, and what did it matter?

The cane planted itself in John’s line of sight, and holding it, Moriarty slid down so that he could look up into John’s lowered gaze. So John closed his eyes. Felt Moriarty’s hand on his cheek then his chin. Didn’t resist when Moriarty leveraged his head and bent closer to murmur, “You’re going to die, John. How does it feel to know that?”

John didn’t answer.

“Should I give you something to take with you?”

John’s brow furrowed in lack of understanding, but then he sensed Moriarty leaning in and thought, _He’s going to kiss me._

And then there were gunshots. One, two.

John’s eyes flew open, and he gave Moriarty a questioning look as Moriarty drew back. But Moriarty’s expression only mirrored John’s surprise and confusion. And then Moriarty tilted to his right and toppled.

“John!”

John tried to turn his head in the direction of his name but couldn’t quite manage. Then Sherlock appeared. John heard the thump and clatter of Sherlock discarding the gun as he focused his efforts on unknotting the ropes.

“John, are you . . .?” But Sherlock’s voice trailed as he spied the gash in John’s side. His eyes tracked up to the deeper penetrating wound in John’s opposite shoulder, the blistering skin on the back of John’s neck. “Dear God, what did he do?”

John opened his mouth to tell him, but all that came out was a sort of gurgle accompanied by the taste of fresh blood on John’s tongue. And then his arms were loose and he felt himself plunge forward under his own weight, regardless of the fact that his legs were still lashed to the chair.

Sherlock caught him, made an alarmed sound at the fresh gushes of blood that John’s movement had produced. “Help. We need to call . . .” But he couldn’t leave John to fall half out of the chair; he needed to finish untying him first. He did it quickly and eased John out of the chair and onto the floor.

“Don’t—” Sherlock began but couldn’t bring himself to voice what he didn’t want to happen, as speaking it aloud might make it so. So as he went for the phone, he merely added, “Just don’t.”

John found himself staring at a dark-clad leg. Moriarty’s knee, he realized and coughed a weak laugh that sent more blood into his throat. The day Sherlock returned to him would be the day he died. And all at once he felt like he’d been waiting for this, expecting it. Sherlock had always had the luck of the devil, and anyone bold or stupid enough to risk his company took the chance of inheriting Sherlock’s deflected fate.

Well, at least Moriarty had taken a share of the hit.

John’s view of the knee was obstructed by Sherlock’s return. “Look at me, John. Stay with me.”

If John could have spoken, he might have pointed out that Sherlock had not wanted John to stay with him two years before. That Sherlock had sent him away and deceived him. But John no longer had the energy for that kind of anger and instead found himself wrapped in a warm and peaceful kind of acquiescence, even as he started to shiver from lack of body heat.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock said as he sensed John was slipping. He wanted to gather John into his arms but was afraid to move him any more than he already had. “Blanket,” he muttered, but he was reluctant to leave even for the few seconds it would take him to go fetch one. He took one of John’s hands—it seemed impossibly cold—and looked into his face. The eyes were losing focus, as if awareness was being siphoned off into the ether. “Stay with me,” Sherlock said again. “I need you with me.”

A dark rivulet of blood appeared at John’s lips.

Outside, sirens sounded.

“John . . .” Sherlock implored.

There was clamoring on the stairs.

“John, please.”

And then Sherlock found himself roughly pushed aside as the paramedics took over.


	4. Chapter 4

THERE WAS MUCH muttering and shaking of heads between the two medics as they examined John’s injuries, and Sherlock was primed to demand what they were discussing, but then Lestrade arrived. It took Sherlock a minute to comprehend the inspector’s astounded expression. Because while most of the people he’d known thought he was dead, Sherlock was not accustomed to thinking of himself that way.

So at first Sherlock mistook Lestrade’s astonishment for shock at the general carnage of the flat. “Moriarty,” he recounted grimly. “He . . .”

“What the devil are you doing here?” Lestrade demanded.

“What? Oh.” Sherlock’s attention had returned to where the paramedics were gingerly moving John onto a stretcher. He took their short, rapid, low-pitched dialogue as a bad sign.

“Sherlock!” bellowed Lestrade.

“I need to go,” Sherlock replied desperately as the stretcher was lifted.

“You’re not going anywhere until you explain!”

“And why are you here?” Sherlock countered.

“I heard the dispatch,” said Lestrade, “and when I heard the address . . .”

Sherlock grimaced in forced acknowledgement of his and Lestrade’s shared concern for John. “Drive me to the hospital and I’ll explain on the way.”

~*~

EVERYTHING WAS BLURRY, and his body had gone numb. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing. But he was aware of the motion around him, brisk and efficient, and then of being lifted, moved, carried. It was almost like floating on one’s back on a river or lake. John felt like he was bobbing along and was disinclined to steer himself in any particular direction, instead allowing the current to do all the work for him.

Something thick was settling in his chest and throat, and John had the distant notion that this should worry him, but it didn’t. He closed his eyes and drifted, slowly sinking, letting the water close over him.

_Don’t let go._

Someone had said those words to him not so long ago, but who? John was too tired to think very hard about it, but the memory nagged at him, until he remembered it had been Sherlock who had said it, on that last night together, that perfect night that in retrospect John had come to realize Sherlock had so carefully constructed. Because Sherlock had believed he was going to die, just as John believed it now. He was slipping under the waterfall, and even if he’d wanted to hold on, there was nothing left to grab onto.

~*~

_3 May  
Two Years Earlier_

“PUT THIS ON.”

John eyed the dinner jacket with undisguised skepticism. “Why?”

“So I can strip it off you later.”

“Is that the real reason?” John asked as he accepted the jacket.

“And this,” Sherlock said, holding out a hanger that held a nicer shirt than the kind John typically wore.

John sighed. “Trousers?”

“In the closet.”

“I trust there’s actually a good excuse for all this?”

“I thought we could do with a real meal for a change. I’ve been living in fear that if I take you to one more lakeside café, you’ll start hurling sandwiches at me.”

John couldn’t disagree; he was more than tired of sandwiches and the occasional salad. “What kind of real meal?” he asked, afraid to get his hopes up.

“Something involving meat and wine, I would think,” Sherlock told him.

That decided it. John took the shirt and went to the closet in search of the trousers.

“Don’t get too excited,” Sherlock warned. “It’s only the dining room.”

“It’s not a café. Anyway, the dining room looked very nice when we walked past.” They had come that afternoon from Rosenlaui to Meiringen, though one Swiss town had started to look much like any other to John. They all either had lakes or mountains, and some had both.

The dining room, as it turned out, was excellent, and better yet, the hotel had opened the terrace for the season. They enjoyed the food, wine and sunset, and if it was a little chilly out, neither of them mentioned it. That was what dinner jackets were for, after all.

After eating and drinking too much and sitting for slightly too long, Sherlock suggested they walk. And although John was tired—they had walked so many cities, towns and villages—he agreed. Because he was having a lovely time and didn’t want it to end.

“Let’s go look at the falls,” said Sherlock.

John hesitated then. “It’s dark.”

“And if we’re lucky, we’ll be alone,” Sherlock pointed out.

Still slightly uneasy, John didn’t argue. Why spoil a nice evening by having a row over something so trivial?

The cool, fresh air served to sober them a little, and they walked in charitable silence. John was surprised when Sherlock took his hand (Sherlock not being prone to overt forms of affection), but he decided to simply enjoy the novelty instead of questioning it.

“There’s a railway,” Sherlock observed when they arrived, “and a platform . . .” He was thoughtful about it, but John ascribed this to Sherlock’s general interest in how things worked. Only later would he come to comprehend Sherlock’s true motive for the walk that night.

But even after he understood, John could never find it in him to be upset about it. Sherlock’s goal had not been to manipulate circumstances; that night had been meant as a parting gift.

There had been more handholding, there had been kissing, there had been a hurried return to the hotel, where Sherlock had made good on his promise to strip John of the strictures of elegant menswear.

And at the end of it all, in the ruins of a once neatly made bed, John had been brave enough to wrap his arms around his lover as they fell asleep, something Sherlock normally didn’t enjoy, often citing his need for space. But that night, Sherlock had drawn closer, prompting John to tighten his hold. And Sherlock had murmured those three words that would haunt John later, from the moment he found the letter to the ambulance ride two years later:

“Don’t let go.”

~*~

AFTER PROMISING AN increasingly astonished Mrs. Hudson that he would be back to explain things later, Sherlock rode with Lestrade to the hospital, filling the ride with a somewhat halting, vague and smoky version of what had transpired both two years before and that day. After all, Lestrade didn’t need to know that jealousy had been the genesis of Sherlock’s impulsive visit, or that he’d gone first to Weald House and been rebuffed.

Lestrade, for his part, was not as amazed as Sherlock seemed to think he should be, but the truth was nothing Sherlock did surprised him any more. Even rising like Lazarus from the grave.

Sherlock had lapsed into silence, but Lestrade could tell he was impatient by the way his eyes darted at everything they passed and his fingers tapped a subconscious melody on his knee. Lestrade wanted to be able to tell Sherlock everything was going to be fine, but he didn’t know that for certain, and he’d been in law enforcement long enough not to make the rookie mistake of offering empty assurances.

Sherlock’s restlessness only seemed to expand once they reached the hospital; it was as if he might work himself into a frenzy of overstimulation. Lestrade gently but firmly directed Sherlock to go take a seat while he went to speak to the emergency staff. And though he expected resistance, or at the very least attitude, Sherlock did as he was told, leaving Lestrade to wonder if maybe Sherlock _could_ still surprise him now and again.

A few minutes later, Lestrade joined Sherlock, taking a seat next to him. Sherlock didn’t look at him, however; his eyes continued to fly all over the room, absorbing information as he worked to distract himself. “See that woman?” he asked Lestrade. “She’s just discovered her boyfriend’s drug habit. And that couple—”

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade.

But Sherlock only began to speak more rapidly. “Their daughter has suffered a serious sports injury. Neck, I would say. And—”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said again, “listen. It isn’t . . . The injuries were bad, you know. There was a lot of damage.”

“That man is here with his father, his aging father, he—”

Lestrade sighed. “He’s still in surgery. It might be a while.”

Sherlock stopped talking. Blinked but did not look at Lestrade directly. “What are his chances?”

“They don’t know. He’s lucky to have made it this far.”

“It’s not some beauty contest,” Sherlock snapped, finally bringing his gaze to meet Lestrade’s. “He doesn’t get a consolation prize for being runner up. He doesn’t get to walk away with ‘almost made it.’”

Lestrade nodded, and they sat there for some time, Sherlock seemingly having lost interest in the other people who occupied the waiting area, instead focusing on an invisible point on the floor roughly a meter in front of his shoes. An inestimable time later, a doctor pushed through the access doors, went to the desk, and after talking to the receptionist there, he looked to Lestrade and caught his eye.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

The doctor gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Wait here a second,” Lestrade told Sherlock as he went to get clarification.

Sherlock continued to stare at the floor.

A few minutes later, Lestrade returned looking pale and slightly ill as he resumed his earlier seat. It was a cliché to say these things never got easier, but clichés were born of truths. “Sherlock,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, the only indication that he’d heard. Then the skin around his eyes tightened and his brow furrowed as if he were trying to see something clearly, or perhaps simply to comprehend.

“Come on,” said Lestrade. “I’ll take you home.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to tell the inspector that he had no home. Oh, there were places he could stay: Baker Street, Weald House, even his old room at Mycroft’s flat. But John would be in none of those places, and even after two years of separation, Sherlock had come to think of ‘home’ as wherever John was at the time.

“I need Irene,” Sherlock said suddenly. He looked down at himself and realized he didn’t have his phone. Was it still in the hired car? He had no idea what Moriarty’s men had done with that.

Seeming to understand, Lestrade handed his mobile phone to Sherlock, who dialed the number he had memorized for his old friend, hoping it hadn’t changed in two and more years.

“John?” Irene answered. She sounded breathless, as if she’d run for the phone when it rang. “I thought you might call today.”

“No,” Sherlock said huskily. “It’s Sherlock.”

There was a pause. Then, “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be, Irene. Why would you think this number is John’s?”

“I just saw it was a call from England, and . . . Sherl, is it really you?”

Sherlock glanced up as the doctor came over to speak to Lestrade again. “Yes. Irene . . . John is . . .” But he couldn’t say it. If he said it, he might cry. He hated to cry.

“No, wait. You need to explain.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ve been doing that all day,” he complained.

“Fine. So where is John? Has he seen you yet?” Irene asked.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“ _Gone_ , Irene. He . . . There was . . .”

“Oh, God,” she said as realization dawned. “Oh, Sherl. Okay, I’m coming. I’ll hop the next flight. You—you should go see your brother, stay with him until I get there.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock scoffed. “Why?”

“Because no matter how you irritate him, he cares about you. And you shouldn’t be alone. Is this your number?”

“No, it’s—” He looked again at Lestrade, who had stepped away with the doctor. “A friend’s. You can call Mycroft if you need to reach me.”

Sherlock hung up and stood, thinking to return Lestrade’s phone and ask him to drive him to Kensington, but he drew back when Lestrade, now standing alone, turned to him with an unexpectedly pleased expression on his face. “There were two men taken from your flat.”

Sherlock’s mind began to click like a big dipper climbing toward a huge drop. “Moriarty,” he said after a moment. “But he must have already been dead, or nearly.”

“Nearly,” Lestrade agreed. “He did die, a little while ago.”

The dipper entered free fall. “So . . .”

“John is just out of surgery,” Lestrade reported. “It was a near thing by all accounts, but he’s stable now. Not awake,” he added quickly. “They’re keeping him sedated to prevent him pulling his sutures.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the access doors, as if considering forcing his way back.

“They’re moving him to a room,” said Lestrade, reading Sherlock's expression. “Dr. Ruskin said he’d be over to tell us which once John is settled.”

~*~

“AH, JOHN,” SIGHED Sherlock as he entered room 367 and fell into the chair beside the bed. It was a strangely square contraption, filled with foam and covered in a particularly awful shade of sea green vinyl. Sherlock frowned down at the piece of furniture in which he sat, picked idly at a place on the left arm where a seam had begun to fray, then reluctantly allowed himself to lean back, only to have the chair unexpectedly lean with him.

Sherlock was so startled he nearly jumped out of the chair, but after glancing at John to be sure he hadn’t seen (and of course he hadn’t, being sedated), Sherlock tested the chair again to the same result. So then he stood up and pushed the chair back, discovering it was designed to lay flat. Either that, or it was very broken.

“You found the guest bed,” a voice said from the doorway, making Sherlock jump again. He turned to see a heavy-set, cheerful-looking nurse smiling widely at him. “I won’t lie to you and tell you it’s comfortable, but it works in a pinch. There are pillows and blankets in the closet over there.”

She walked over to John’s bed and took a look at the chart. “Mmm,” she said, “looks like your friend got into a nasty fight.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer; he was trying to get the chair to sit upright again.

“All right, well,” the nurse said, walking over and fixing the chair in one smooth motion, “we’ll keep him under sedation for the next eight to twelve hours, mostly to stop him from moving around too much. And after he’s awake, _no exertion_.” She pointed a long and highly polished fingernail in Sherlock’s direction as she charged him with this task. “That vein was perforated; it’ll need time to heal, else he risks ripping it right open.”

Sherlock nodded soberly.

“You his next of kin?” the nurse asked.

Sherlock glanced at the pale, immobile figure in the bed. “I’m his fiancé.” He wasn’t sure this was still true, but it would suffice for now.

The nurse’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Well, congratulations. You want some tea or anything?”

“No. Thank you,” Sherlock answered brokenly. All at once he felt rusty, as if he’d been living as a hermit and forgotten how to deal with people.

“If you change your mind, there’s a canteen one floor down, or you can ask a nurse to order you a tray.”

Sherlock gave another obedient nod and the nurse left.

Eyeing the chair with suspicion, Sherlock sat again. “Shall we see what’s on the telly?” he asked John. Sherlock had never had much use for most programming outside of news and the occasional scientific documentary, but John liked television, often fell asleep while watching it. So Sherlock took the remote attached to John’s bed and aimed it at the set that was bolted high on the wall, flipping until he found a match of some sort that looked like the kind of thing John would enjoy. Then he settled back (taking care not to set the chair off again) and closed his eyes.

“I’m surprised to find you here,” a voice said some time later, though it felt to Sherlock like no time at all. “You hate hospitals.”

“Just the ones with people,” Sherlock corrected. “You know, the sick kind. How did you find me?”

“I have people watching John, remember? You’re the one who insists on it,” said Mycroft. “And Irene called me besides. She wanted to be sure you’d come home.”

Sherlock glanced at John, reached for the remote and turned off the telly.

“She was quite concerned you might . . . do something,” Mycroft went on.

“Well, I thought John was dead when I called her. But he’s not.”

“And now she’s on her way,” said Mycroft.

“Ten minutes in a world without him was ten minutes too long,” Sherlock admitted. “I needed . . . support.”

“Come on, then,” Mycroft told him. “Let’s go home so you can get some proper rest. He’ll still be here tomorrow. And probably still asleep.”

“Your flat, you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“I can’t imagine yours is fit to inhabit just now.”

Sherlock pictured the bloodstained rug and ruined chair, undesirable souvenirs of a horrific afternoon. Much as he hated it, Mycroft was correct as usual. Still, he looked speculatively at the chair in which he sat.

Mycroft tutted. “You’d be sorry for it in the morning. Come on,” he said again, “the car is waiting downstairs.”

Sherlock supposed a shower and some decent sleep would be more use than sitting in the hospital room, and there was always the chance he’d be kicked out eventually anyway. But he asked, “You still have people watching him?”

“He’ll be fine,” Mycroft promised.

Sherlock stood and Mycroft waited for his brother to pass and exit the room ahead of him, an old habit born of Sherlock not always following when he was expected to. But Sherlock stopped beside his sibling and said, “I almost lost him, Mycroft.”

Mycroft grimaced sympathetically. “I know the feeling,” he replied with some pointedness in his tone. “But the important thing is: you didn’t. Not today.”

“And tomorrow?” Sherlock asked.

“One thing at a time, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “If you try to worry about everything at once, you’ll only paralyze yourself. You taught me that.”

Sherlock wasn’t quick enough to hide his surprise. “I did?”

“Well, worrying about you did.” Mycroft nudged his brother toward the door. “Now, the sooner you get some rest, the sooner you can be back here irritating the staff.”

“I wasn’t irritating anyone.” But Sherlock moved for the door all the same.

“I find that highly unlikely,” Mycroft replied mildly as he followed his brother from the room, turning a practiced deaf ear to all ensuing protests.


	5. Chapter 5

UPON HIS RETURN to room 367 the next morning, Sherlock stopped short in the doorway. Someone was there, kneeling beside the bed. A young man, with dark hair and (though Sherlock couldn’t see them, he knew) eyes, squarely built like a Roman gladiator.

_Kneeling? Really?_

Sherlock hung back and watched. Eoin had one of John’s hands folded in both of his, and Sherlock could only assume the ridiculous array of flowers on the bedside table had come with him. Lilies? Snapdragons? John liked daisies and daffodils, lilacs and tulips. Clearly this boy did not know his would-be paramour very well.

Eoin appeared to be whispering, but Sherlock could not make out the words. Then suddenly, Eoin rose and turned. “Oh!” he said. “Are you . . .?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, wondering how much Eoin knew, how much John had told him.

“A friend of John’s?” Eoin finished.

Sherlock almost strained himself in his attempt to keep from rolling his eyes, but at least he was successful. He slapped on a charming smile. “Yes. An old friend.”

Eoin sighed. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” he asked earnestly. “He was . . . attacked! In his flat! I didn’t even know he was in town,” he added mournfully.

Sherlock transformed his expression into something suitably grave. “Awful,” he agreed. “And are you . . . a friend of John’s?”

Eoin turned pink from neck to earlobes. “We work together. And, uh, we’re friends.”

“Work together. At the clinic?” Sherlock guessed.

Eoin nodded.

“You’re a doctor?” Sherlock couldn’t keep a note of disbelief from his tone.

“A nurse actually.” Eoin hesitated. “How do you know John?”

“We lived together,” said Sherlock, watching keenly for Eoin’s reaction.

The boy didn’t disappoint; he had no apparent filter for his emotions. Flushing even more, he said only, “Oh!”

“It’s been a couple of years,” Sherlock hinted broadly.

But that didn’t seem to mean anything to Eoin, who only said again, “Oh.”

“I’m Sherlock,” Sherlock finally said, offering his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Eoin accepted the handshake with no apparent recognition of the name. “Eoin MacEwan.”

Sherlock stopped just short of asking what Eoin’s parents had been thinking by giving him a name like that. It occurred to him belatedly that he probably didn’t have much leeway for throwing stones in that department, but at least his name had a ring to it.

There was an awkward stretch of silence, during which Sherlock merely stared at Eoin, attempting to read in his body language the details of his relationship with John.

“I could, uh, give you a minute, if you like?” Eoin finally said, and Sherlock found himself somewhere between amused and annoyed that the boy had the presumption to assume he had the right to grant or deny him access. But Sherlock only stretched his smile a little thinner and said, “Would you?”

Eoin gave a short nod, and Sherlock looked away quickly to keep from laughing at his show of bravado; the boy was trying all too hard to make the exchange something grown up, whatever his idea of “grown up” was. Probably something from daytime television, the sorts of shows Mrs. Hudson liked.

Sherlock stepped neatly past Eoin and went to the bedside. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Eoin had left, then took John’s hand. “You’re awake,” he accused when he detected a tiny motion in John’s fingers.

John kept his eyes closed. “Not because I want to be.”

“What could you possibly want with such an idiot?” demanded Sherlock.

“I’m awful, thank you for asking,” said John. He withdrew his hand, though even that much movement clearly pained him. “Anyway, he’s sweet. And harmless.”

“I perceive a rebuke,” Sherlock said. “I take it I am neither sweet nor harmless?”

“No, you aren’t,” John confirmed, finally opening his eyes.

“Do you want me to kneel beside your bed like some chivalrous knight?”

John coughed a laugh at the mental image the suggestion produced, then grimaced. “Don’t. It hurts worse when I laugh.”

But Sherlock’s expression became sober. “I am sorry, John. This is exactly what I was trying to prevent at Reichenbach.”

John released the air from his lungs slowly to minimize the discomfort. “You should go. Eoin’s called Mum and Dad, which means Harry will probably be here any minute, too . . .”

A strange numbness started in Sherlock’s chest and began to radiate toward his limbs. “They’ve met him?”

“My parents have, yeah. They don’t . . . _know_ , but they’ve met Eoin as a friend.”

Sherlock tried to understand this but realized he wasn’t fluent in the emotional language involved. He needed Irene, still and again; she would be able to decode the situation and feed it back to him in a way that made sense. For now, Sherlock stepped away from the bed and said, “I’ll bring Irene by later. She flew in, but she’s still getting over her jet lag.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“I’ll try to clean up the flat a bit, too.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them,” said John.

“I assume they won’t release you for a few days yet anyway,” Sherlock went on.

“Sherlock! Just listen.” John waited, but Sherlock’s attention had drifted to the flower arrangement.

“They’re awful, those flowers,” said Sherlock.

Thrown off, John said, “They’re all right, I think.”

“Maybe for some people, but not for you.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“You like the smell of lilac. And you like daffodils because of the color and that Wordsworth poem. And you find tulips oddly enchanting, especially those pink and white ones. You see. You thought I wasn’t paying attention, but I . . .” Sherlock swallowed and blinked rapidly; for some reason his vision had gone fuzzy.

“Sherlock, really. It’s just that my family, they have a sixth sense for . . . And you know what a terrible liar I am. I wouldn’t be able to hide it.”

Slowly Sherlock’s sight began to resolve as he focused on John once more. “Hide it?”

“If you were in the room, they’d know. Immediately. Harry especially,” John added with a scowl; just thinking about his sister put him in a bad mood. Knowing she was on her way filled him with dread.

But Sherlock remained stubbornly obtuse. “Know what?” he asked.

“That you’re not dead, for one thing,” said John, suddenly angry, though whether it was with Sherlock or himself he wasn’t sure.

“They must have thought you took the death of your flatmate rather hard,” Sherlock surmised.

John settled back against his pillows. “Just go. Before they get here.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, striding to the door. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your happy reunion. I’m sure your boyfriend will be back soon, too, and you’ll want some quality time with him as well.”

John did nothing to dispel this notion, merely closed his eyes again and kept them closed until he was sure Sherlock was gone and wouldn’t witness his tears.

~*~

ALMOST AS SOON as Sherlock had left, Eoin returned, leading John to believe he’d been waiting around nearby. “Are you all right?” Eoin asked, immediately prepared to be solicitous.

_Sweet and harmless_ , thought John. _Sometimes so sweet I think I might form cavities._

“Fine,” John said. “I just wish the nurse would come turn up the drip.”

Eoin glanced at the morphine drip, and John realized he thought John was subtly asking him to do it. “No, Eoin,” he said gently; Eoin’s feelings were so fragile, John sometimes felt he couldn’t talk louder than a whisper. “I didn’t mean for you to do anything you shouldn’t.”

Clearly relieved, Eoin took a seat on the very edge of the chair, ready to jump up should John want or need anything. Initially, John had found his clumsy earnestness a nice change, and there had been something satisfying about knowing exactly where he stood with Eoin. That Eoin liked him was obvious, even if John wasn’t entirely sure why.

Eoin had started at the clinic the past fall, though John had not taken much notice of him. Later, after John and Eoin had begun seeing each other, Sarah admitted that everyone had been aware of Eoin’s obvious crush on him. She’d come into his office for a tea break, something they’d made a habit of each afternoon. “It was really sad, watching him make the dejected puppy face every time you walked past.”

“I wasn’t being mean,” John had said defensively.

“No, just oblivious. As usual.” She’d stood to leave, their break finished. “But it has a happy ending anyway.”

John hadn’t been sure how true that was at the time, and he was less sure now.

“I shouldn’t have let him stay,” Eoin said, pulling John from his thoughts.

“What?”

“That . . . friend of yours. He upset you. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let him stay and bother you.”

John started to chuckle at the idea of Eoin trying to stop Sherlock from doing whatever it was he had it in mind to do, then sucked in a breath at the pain. “He didn’t bother me.”

Eoin sulked for a moment longer before announcing with what John counted as far too much enthusiasm, “Well, your parents are on their way. And your sister, too.”

This went a long way in showing John just how little Eoin did know him; Sherlock would have known better than to call his parents, in part to keep from worrying them, and in much larger part to keep them from calling Harry.

John saw now that his relationship with Eoin was formed of a combination of Eoin’s eager persistence and John’s having chosen the path of least resistance. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Eoin’s feelings, and still didn’t, but this wasn’t working, was never going to work.

“Do you see this going anywhere?” John asked suddenly.

Eoin turned from his expectant watching of the door. “What do you mean?”

The wide-eyed innocence put a crack in John’s heart, and he almost dropped the subject. But his parents were coming, and his sister, and it would be better to have this done with first. His parents had met Eoin completely by accident when they’d come to visit for a weekend and Eoin had dropped by unexpectedly. They hadn’t suspected anything—Eoin hadn’t been that dense, thank God, though if he’d been waiting to be introduced as John’s “boyfriend,” he’d been disappointed—but Harry would figure it out in a matter of seconds.

“I think you know what I mean, Eoin,” said John, trying to be gentle, though now that the decision was made, he felt impatience beginning to surface inside him.

“Of course it’s going somewhere. I love you.”

Eoin’s lack of hesitation widened the crack. Sherlock had never said it, of course, and neither had John. Confronting Sherlock with unvarnished emotion was akin to assaulting him; John would never have gone that far without being sure Sherlock was ready.

And yet, given a choice between waiting a lifetime to hear Sherlock say those words, or listening to Eoin say them twenty times a day . . .

If only he hadn’t sent Sherlock away from Weald House, or again only minutes before, but he’d broken his unspoken promise.

He’d let go.

“John?” Eoin asked.

John tried to sit up, but the stiffness in his side and shoulder prevented it.

“John, you shouldn’t,” Eoin instructed.

“Do you have a phone?” John asked.

Without question, Eoin pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over, his only outward mark of distress a worried frown.

“I need . . .” John said softly to himself. He didn’t have Sherlock’s number, but he could call Mycroft, or even Irene. Yes, Irene would be the one to talk to. Irene, who’d seen him through the funeral and checked on him regularly. She’d been the one John had called whenever the sense of loss threatened to overwhelm him. And she’d come to visit at Weald House every summer, had been planning to come again in July. Only Irene would understand the mixture of anger and relief John was feeling. So though his inability to move his right shoulder and the stiffness in his torso made it an effort, he dialed Irene’s number and awkwardly held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Irene answered groggily.

“Irene,” said John.

Immediately Irene’s voice transformed into that of a person who was wide awake. “John!” she practically squealed. “You know Sherlock—”

“I know. And I’ve just sent him off, and now I need you to go find him for me.” John risked a glance at Eoin, whose frown had deepened as he watched and listened intently.

“Well, I can see if he’s here,” said Irene. “But if he’s not, where should I look?”

“He said something about cleaning up at the flat, so you could try there,” John suggested. “Tell him . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

“I’ll bring him to you, and you can tell him,” Irene said.

John hung up and handed Eoin back his phone. “Thanks.”

“This is because of your friend, the one that was here,” said Eoin. “He told me you used to live together.”

“We were engaged, for all of four days two years ago,” John told him.

“And so that’s it? He wanders in, and you’re through with me?”

“It’s more complicated than that, Eoin,” John said wearily.

But Eoin’s voice was getting sharper and louder. He stood and demanded, “That ring you used to wear?”

“Was from Sherlock,” John acknowledged. “But, Eoin, even if he hadn’t come back, it never would have worked.”

“Why are you saying this? It _was_ working. And I’ve been here from the minute I heard, and where was he? He didn’t even bring you flowers!”

_But if he had, he’d have brought the right kind_ , John thought. But all he said was, “Eoin, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Eoin said. “You’ll realize your mistake. I can wait until then.”

“Eoin . . .”

“It’s all right,” Eoin said again, eerily calm as he turned to go. “I’ll see you around. At the clinic or wherever.” And with a seed of disquiet planted deep in his stomach, John watched him leave.

~*~

“THOUGHT I MIGHT find you here,” Irene said after pushing open the door to the flat. “What are you doing?”

“Well, first I was interrogated and forcibly fed biscuits by Mrs. Hudson, and now I’m cleaning,” said Sherlock. An area rug had already been rolled up, the furniture that once stood on it pushed aside chaotically.

“This chair will have to go,” said Irene, placing a hand on the back of the chair John had been tied to.

Sherlock temporarily halted scrubbing the hardwood where the rug had been soaked through. “Why? It can be reupholstered.”

Irene’s mouth fell open. “You can’t just reupholster a chair someone was tortured in!”

“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s a perfectly good chair.”

Looking askance at the chair, Irene stepped away and took a seat on the sofa, where she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. “John sent me to find you,” she finally said after a minute of watching Sherlock vigorously clean a stain that was long since gone.

Only the briefest of pauses in Sherlock’s action gave away the fact that this statement had made an impact. “Really? Why?”

“I think he has something to tell you.”

“Then he can phone me.”

“Except you’ve lost your phone. And he never had the number,” Irene pointed out. “And you hate the phone. Which is why he called me instead.”

Sherlock made a noise that Irene took as acquiescence. But still he continued to clean.

“So are you coming or not?” Irene asked.

“Coming where?”

“To the hospital!”

“I’ve already been. I went this morning. But his new boyfriend was there, and his parents and sister were on their way, so . . .”

“So?” Irene prompted.

“He didn’t need me.”

Irene slid off the sofa and went to sit in front of Sherlock. She took the rag from his hand and said, “He absolutely needs you.”

Sherlock set his jaw in a way that told Irene he was prepared to be stubborn.

“If you were in the hospital, and your mother and brother were threatening to visit, wouldn’t you want John there?” Irene asked.

“He made it plenty clear that he didn’t want me anywhere near them,” said Sherlock, rising. “Anyway, he has Eoin to back him up.”

“I don’t know anything about Eoin,” Irene admitted; John had never mentioned such a person to her. “I only know he asked for you.” She looked up at Sherlock expectantly, but he only stared blankly. So she said, “He’s allowed to change his mind, isn’t he?”

“Is he still angry with me?” Sherlock asked.

That brought Irene to her feet. “If he is, he has every right to be, and so do I! What you put him through—no matter what reasons you had for doing it—was cruel. So maybe he _is_ angry, and he might be for a while, but that doesn’t mean he’s not also happy to see you. It’s just—it’s going to be mixed up inside him for a while.”

“Then maybe it’s better if I give him space to sort it out.”

Irene slapped him with the rag. “You’re a coward.”

“You’re angry, too,” Sherlock deduced.

“Yes. And I wasn’t even planning to spend my life with you.” Irene tossed the rag on the floor and turned for the door. “Well, I’m going to see John whether you’re coming or not.”

“Fine, just let me . . .” Sherlock went to John’s room, opened the bedside table drawer and withdrew a box he’d noticed when looking for the gun the day before. Hesitated. Started to put it back, but then opened it and took out his father’s ring. He slipped it into his pocket and returned the box to the drawer.

He might not need it, he reasoned, but with any luck he would, so it was better to have it with him.


	6. Chapter 6

“JOHNNY!” HARRY CRIED as she swept into the room, drawing the second syllable out into one long, ear-splitting squeal. She was done up as fashionably as ever in her pantsuit and heels, her manicured nails and carefully sculpted hair. Harry was successful (to a degree), and she wanted people to know it by looking at her.

“Well, you look all right to me,” she went on, dropping her oversized bag beside the bed. “Your co-worker friend made it sound like you were all but dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” John muttered. He was sleepy again thanks to a recent visit from the nurse.

“Of course I’m not disappointed!” said Harry far too loudly for a hospital, or even a bar, unless perhaps there was loud music involved. “But it’s a shame to worry Mum and Dad for no reason.”

“Are they here?” John asked.

“On their way.” Harry plopped into the visitor’s chair; for all her airs, she had little grace. “I offered to pick them up, you know, but they preferred to take the train.”

This was no surprise to John, seeing as Harry’s driving was liable to land anyone in the vicinity in a hospital. Getting to their injured son sooner would not have been worth the risk of riding with their daughter. Though, John reasoned in a head-swimming kind of way, they would have ended up in the same place either way.

“What, are you falling asleep on me?” Harry demanded as John’s lids threatened to close. “After I came all this way?”

“It’s the meds,” John mumbled.

“I really expected more people around,” Harry sniffed. “More flowers at least. Those are nice, though,” she said. “Who’re they from?”

John was finding it increasingly difficult to talk. He tried to say “office” but wasn’t convinced that whatever came out made any sense.

“After all the panic, you’d think they’d be here keeping vigil or something,” said Harry, adding as a new notion occurred to her, “Oooh, do you have scars?”

_If only I’d fallen asleep a few minutes earlier_ , thought John.

“Don’t know what anyone would want with your flat anyway,” Harry continued. “I mean, look at my place! And I’ve never once been robbed!”

It was like when they’d been younger, and John had wanted to read or do his homework or listen to music or even just go to bed, and Harry would barge in and start talking and never shut up. “Please stop,” John used to say, and he was thinking it now, but as always Harry just rolled on under her own momentum, flattening anything in her path.

“—security system,” she was saying now. “John? Did you hear me?”

“No,” John slurred.

“I said I’d get someone in for you, if you like. To put in a security system.”

John tried to shake his head, but it felt as if his brain had begun to liquefy and was sloshing inside his skull.

“How did they even find you? Were you able to reach a phone, or did your landlady—?”

And here came the tricky part, the part John would hardly be prepared to deal with even if he were completely alert and in possession of his full faculties, much less while loaded on pain medication. His flatmate was supposed to be dead, after all. And while it was no secret to his sister that Sherlock had been (and still was, it turned out) an odd duck, explaining his resurgence still wouldn’t be easy. Harry didn’t let things like that go without serious inquiry.

He was spared the immediate need to explicate by the sudden appearance of a petite redhead zipping into the room. “Sherl’s on his way,” she said, going straight to John’s bedside. “He’s just, you know . . .” And she shrugged.

Harry had risen from the chair. “Are you one of John’s co-workers?” she queried in a tone John guessed she used in her office quite regularly.

Irene’s brilliant green eyes flew across the bed to John’s sister. “Oh! No, just a friend. Irene,” she said, holding out her hand. “Flew in last night from New York when it sounded like . . . Well, but he’s better, so that’s all that matters.”

Harry took her time in taking Irene’s hand, giving the impression she was doing Irene a favor somehow. “Harry. John’s _sister_. You’re Irene? I think he’s maybe mentioned you . . .”

A smile tugged at Irene’s lips. “Really? I think maybe he’s mentioned you, too, but—” And here she gave an exaggerated frown as if trying to remember, “I could be thinking of someone else.” Then without waiting for Harry’s response, Irene turned to John once more. “Wake up, John. I dragged him all the way down here; the least you could do is be awake.” She leaned in and peered at him. “Not self-medicating again, are you?”

This sent a bolt of awareness through John, and his eyelids rose. “I’m in the hospital, Irene. The only medication I’m on is whatever they’re giving me.”

“What’s she talking about, John?” Harry asked, but John’s eyes were closing again. So she turned to Irene. “What do you mean?”

“It’s really nothing,” said Irene, taking steps towards the door. “Where is he?”

“Who?” asked Harry.

“Sherlock,” said Irene.

“Oh, hadn’t you heard? He died.” Harry hesitated. “He was the flatmate, right? I remember it was a strange name . . .”

“Yes, I know,” said Irene as she craned her head around the doorframe. “But he turned up yesterday, alive and well.” She sighed. “And now he’s disappeared again.”

There was a long pause as Harry absorbed this information. “Good God,” she finally said, resuming her seat. “John moped for ages after that whole thing. John!” she shouted as if he were hard of hearing as opposed to sedated, “your old flatmate is alive after all!”

Irene looked over her shoulder with a frown, genuine this time. She glanced a question at John—something along the lines of: _seriously?_ —but his eyes were closed. Either he really had fallen asleep, or he was studiously and steadfastly ignoring his sister.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor drew Irene’s attention back to the doorway. Finally! Sherlock was coming.

~*~

SHERLOCK FORCED HIMSELF to maintain a steady gait, despite the roil of internal conflict. On one hand he was eager to see John, but on the other he continued to worry that he would do or say something to upset John all over again. He hoped Irene had smoothed the way for him, though when he saw her making faces from the doorway, Sherlock was compelled to stab down a surge of panic. Did John not want to see him after all?

But as he approached, Irene whispered, “Sister,” and all became clear.

Sherlock did a rapid calculation. He could leave and come back later, when none of John’s family was around. That would be the least complicated resolution. But Sherlock couldn’t deny his curiosity, and it seemed only fair that, since John was acquainted with the Holmes clan (a number of whom had attended the funeral, Mycroft had reported to Sherlock’s great satisfaction), Sherlock get a look at the Watsons. So after only the briefest hesitation, Sherlock entered the room.

He took Harry’s measure in one quick glance without even needing to turn his head for a direct inspection. Yes, he could see why she and John weren’t close. Anyone who got herself that done up for a visit at a hospital showed a particular form of selfishness. Otherwise she’d have come straight away, never mind taking the time to shower, dress and slap on so much makeup. John was a generous soul; his tolerance for selfishness, Sherlock knew firsthand, was low to nil. But he didn’t criticize his sister. Why? It seemed unlikely that John didn’t care. And he’d never had any problem correcting Sherlock when he felt the detective had overstepped the bounds of propriety. So what made the difference?

There were two possible conclusions that Sherlock could discern: either John wasn’t comfortable challenging his sister for some reason, or else he simply thought it wouldn’t do any good.

Interesting.

In the handful of seconds it had taken for Sherlock to complete this mental process, he had crossed the room, trailing Irene as she returned to the side of John’s bed opposite Harry. “John,” Irene was saying quietly, “Sherl’s here.”

Sherlock was aware of Harry’s eyes on him, but he took care not to respond to her intent gaze, focusing instead on John, who moved his head on the pillow slightly but did not open his eyes.

Irene sighed. “Sorry. I think the medication has him plastered.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. After all, it was to no one’s benefit or detriment if he did.

Then Harry said suddenly, “You’re the dead flatmate.”

No getting away with ignoring her now, Sherlock supposed. He pulled in a breath and looked at her squarely. “Hardly.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “There can’t be that many Sherlocks in the world, much less that my brother knows.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not dead.” He considered her for a moment. “You didn’t bring flowers.”

“Neither did you.”

“It would have been strange if I had,” said Sherlock.

“Okay, children,” Irene announced, “play nice. He’s got enough going on without you bickering.” She looked to Sherlock. “Is that what they call it here?”

“Well, it’s not a full-out row,” Harry conceded. “Yet.”

Sherlock found this a curious statement. What reason would John’s sister have to pick a fight with someone she’d never met? She knew Sherlock only by whatever John had told her. So what had John said?

The dynamic was intriguing as well, though Sherlock recognized it from his dealings with Mycroft. Harry was positioning herself as John’s defender. She did care, then; her regular phone calls were more than obligation or mere nosiness. Yet John insisted they didn’t get on. Why?

Sherlock was so busy following these various threads of logic that he was surprised when Harry said, “My brother loved you.”

Everything inside Sherlock contracted, as if attempting to make himself small, less of a target. And simultaneously his shields went up, ready to deflect whatever condemnation might be hurled in his direction. This was, Sherlock sensed, about to become a messy and emotional affair.

Then from the bed, John murmured, “Leave him alone, Harry.”

“After what he did to you?” Harry asked him. She turned on Sherlock. “The mess he was after you fell off a mountain or whatever it was—”

With effort, John opened his eyes. “Harry! Leave. Him. Alone!”

“And you don’t yell at your sister,” said a voice from the doorway.

Harry and Irene both looked toward the door, but Sherlock kept his eyes on John, who gave a small sigh and shut his lids once more.

“Don’t be hard on him, Harold,” said the round little woman who was approaching the bed. “He’s injured, for God’s sake.” She brushed past Harry and leaned in to hug John, causing his eyes to pop open again.

“Mum, my shoulder.”

“Sorry, dear,” Mrs. Watson cooed, promptly releasing her son.

Sherlock turned his attention to the man who stood at the foot of the bed. Tall and muscular, thinning hair, good posture. Military. Possibly militant as well. At the very least, he clearly had expectations about how his son should behave. Yelling at his sister was evidently _verboten_ , regardless of whether there was cause.

Not that there had been. But John’s father didn’t know that.

Understanding began to crystalize in Sherlock’s brain. John’s upbringing didn’t allow him to take his sister to task for her behavior, so John chose to avoid her rather than deal with the constant frustration of not being able to chastise her.

“So, John, you’re all right?” Mr. Watson asked now, and despite his dismissive tone, Sherlock noted the concern in his eyes. A good sign.

“Eoin shouldn’t have called you,” said John, working to stay awake. “I’m fine; there was no reason to worry.”

Mr. Watson’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and Mrs. Watson broke into a wide grin. “That Eoin! He’s a nice boy, though, trying to take care of you. A good friend,” she declared.

Sherlock’s gaze darted to John, hoping to catch out the truth, but John didn’t bat an eye. Was it the meds? Or was John a practiced liar, at least when it came to his parents?

“And are these your friends?” Mrs. Watson went on, sounding almost as if she were talking to a four year old.

John was losing the battle against his fatigue. “Irene. Sherlock,” he half mumbled.

“He’s the one who fell off the mountain,” Harry added.

Mrs. Watson frowned at her daughter. “That can’t be right. That one died.”

“Ask him,” said Harry.

“It was a waterfall,” said Sherlock before Mrs. Watson could actually inquire.

“But there was a funeral and everything,” said Mrs. Watson. “We didn’t go, of course, because we didn’t know him—er, you . . .” Her brow puckered.

“John didn’t speak to anyone for months,” Harry put in.

“Well, now, that’s not exactly true,” Irene countered. “We spent some time together . . . after . . .”

Sherlock cocked an eye at her, and Mr. Watson said, firmly but not unkindly, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Irene rewarded him with a smile. “Irene Adler. And this is Sherlock Holmes,” she added, looping her arm through Sherlock’s.

Tension in the room began to ease.

And then Harry announced, “Sherlock is John’s boyfriend.”

~*~

_4 May  
Two Years Earlier_

“WHERE ARE YOU going?” John asked. The morning sun filtering in through the suite’s windows was brighter than it had any right to be, and his body resisted movement when he attempted to sit up, so that he only managed to roll slightly to one side.

Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared wide awake. Typical. He was dressed and already at the door. “Just going for some air.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll come with you,” John told him, making a more successful attempt at sitting up, though his head protested vehemently.

“It’s not necessary,” said Sherlock. “Stay here and get some rest.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” John said, stung at the notion he wasn’t wanted. “I only thought you might like some company. But go. Go on then, I’ll just . . .” He rubbed at his face, trying to get the blood moving. “Catch up with you later.”

Sherlock sighed. “How quickly can you shower?”

John threw back the sheet. “Quickly enough.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

John nodded and forced his objecting body into motion.

After the fastest shower he could manage given what felt like a limited range of movement, John found Sherlock in the lobby looking morose or peeved, he wasn’t sure which. Assuming he’d taken too long, John said, “Sorry. It took the water a little while to heat up,” only to realize Sherlock was somewhere else entirely, at least inside his head, as he stared into space.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“Walkies?”

That earned him a glare, but at least it got things moving. Sherlock rose and started for the doors without checking to see that John followed—which, of course, he did. And continued for no little time, always a few steps behind as Sherlock moved swiftly in the direction of the falls.

Finally, John said, “If you wanted to walk alone—”

“I told you to stay back at the hotel,” said Sherlock, but he paused long enough for John to catch up to him.

John had come to understand enough about his companion that he knew not to take the words personally, difficult as that was. Because so little affected Sherlock, he often failed to consider that he might yet affect others unthinkingly, that his words and actions might bruise places that couldn’t be seen. These invisible spaces were not frequented by Sherlock; indeed, he was as uncomfortable as a child in church when cornered in them, and as such he became fidgety and irritable—just as he was now.

Which meant it was no routine question of logic bothering him. Something deeper was troubling Sherlock Holmes.

Better, though, not to press the matter. So John merely remarked, “Back to the Falls?”

“I wanted a better look. In daylight,” Sherlock answered flatly.

“I would have expected more tourists,” said John. He was only trying to make conversation, even though he knew Sherlock hated talk for its own sake.

“Some kind of festival in town,” Sherlock said.

“Really?” John looked over his shoulder as if expecting to be able to see flags, tents, people—whatever constituted this jubilee. “Should we go?”

Sherlock only sighed.

“Right,” John said, as if the sigh had been a perfectly succinct argument against the suggestion.

They could hear the waterfall now, and soon it would become difficult to talk at all without having to shout, which John supposed was just as well given that Sherlock clearly did not want to chat. What had happened, he wondered, between the perfection of the previous night and that morning to cause such a change in Sherlock’s mood? John glanced again over his shoulder, as if the answer could be found hovering there, but instead was surprised to see a young woman hurrying up after them. She was dressed in the uniform of the hotel and carried an envelope in her hand.

“Sherlock . . .”

Sherlock stopped walking and followed John’s gaze with little apparent interest.

“The doctor,” the woman said breathlessly as she reached them. “You are the English doctor?”

With a quick look at Sherlock, John nodded.

The woman handed him the envelope. “There is someone—the hotel, someone who needs—” She made an indecipherable gesture.

John opened the envelope and read the short note.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“A guest at the hotel requires medical assistance from someone who speaks English.”

“Then you should go,” said Sherlock.

John looked at him. “I’m sure I’m not the only doctor in the area who can speak English.”

Sherlock offered a small smile. “Even if that’s true, I know from experience you are one of the best.”

Blinking surprise at the unexpected compliment, John said, “If you’re sure . . .”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll catch up with you in a bit then,” John told him as he refolded the note and returned it to its envelope.

“There’s no hurry,” Sherlock said. And whether there was a note of melancholy in the detective’s voice or he only imagined it later, John never knew.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * this was written before marriage laws in the UK had changed

HARRY AND SHERLOCK locked eyes.

“And is your evidence the flowers I didn’t bring? Or the fact that I was absent for two years while John thought I was dead?” Sherlock asked her.

“My evidence,” said Harry, “is that I’ve watched my brother go through any number of heartbreaks, but I have _never_ seen him so devastated as he was after—” She waved a hand. “Whatever it was you did.”

“You weren’t even there, Harry,” said John tiredly.

“So you deny it?” Harry challenged.

John’s gaze drifted to his mother, who continued to look confused, and on to his father, whose expression was inscrutable. Then he looked at Sherlock, standing there waiting for his cue—for once it was John’s decision, and Sherlock would play his role as directed—and Irene, the arm she had looped through Sherlock’s tightening in anticipation as she bit her lip.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” sighed John. “He’s my fiancé.”

“John!” Mrs. Watson scolded. “How could you go and get engaged without telling us?”

“It was sort of sudden,” John said.

Sherlock was very aware of Mr. Watson’s intense stare, which he met only askance as he attempted to weigh the man’s likely response. “To be honest, I thought it was Eoin,” Mr. Watson said at length. “Glad it’s not, though.”

“Harold!” Mrs. Watson yelped.

Her husband shrugged. “Boy was a bit of a drip.”

“He was very nice!” Mrs. Watson protested.

“Didn’t fall off waterfalls at least,” said Harry.

“Shut up about it, Harry,” said John.

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up,” said their father.

Unsure whether he should say anything, Sherlock looked to Irene; if anyone could coach him on social complexities, she could. But her lips were firmly pressed together as she tried to keep from laughing. He frowned at her; he didn’t find any of it particularly funny. But Irene’s eyes continued to sparkle with amusement as she gave her head a tiny shake, a gesture Sherlock took to mean he should keep his mouth shut.

“Well, where is it going to be? And when?” Mrs. Watson was asking, her eyes darting between Sherlock and John. “We’ll need to draw up a guest list and—”

John yawned, and Mr. Watson stepped forward to take his wife’s arm. “Let’s let him get some rest before we plan the rest of his life, eh?”

“What? Oh,” said Mrs. Watson as she turned to John. “All right, Johnny dear, we’ll be back to see you . . . when? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s fine, Mum, I’m not going anywhere.”

“All right,” Mrs. Watson said again, “if you’re sure . . .” Her husband gave her arm a gentle tug and she obediently began to follow.

“’Night, John,” said Mr. Watson. “Irene. Sherlock.”

“’Night, Dad,” said John, and Irene and Sherlock murmured appropriate goodbyes.

Then rather more sharply, Mr. Watson said, “Harriet,” in a clear indication that she was expected to join her parents. She threw Sherlock a baleful glance, shot her brother a look Sherlock was unable to decipher, scooped up her bag and stalked out.

After a minute, Irene said, “Well, that could have gone much worse.”

Sherlock and John only stared at one another, and all at once Sherlock realized they hadn’t actually spoken to each other at all since his arrival. Now he felt he should say something profound, but all he could think of was, “I have your ring. If you want it.”

“Save it,” said John, and when Sherlock drew back in a way that suggested John’s rejection had hurt him, John clarified, “For the ceremony.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed. “You meant it?”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind?” John asked.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Then yes, I meant it.”

They lapsed into silence, and then Sherlock asked, “Eoin?”

“Who _is_ Eoin?” Irene asked, startling the two men who seemed to have forgotten she was there.

“John’s boyfriend,” answered Sherlock.

“Ex-boyfriend,” John corrected. “As of this morning.”

Irene scowled at him. “You never said!”

“We only started at the end of January. I would have told you all about him in July.”

“What’s in July?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s when I usually come visit,” said Irene.

Sherlock’s expression darkened. “The two of you became quite cozy while I was away.”

“And whose fault is it we thought you were dead?” Irene asked him. “That’s what loss does, Sherl; it brings people together. But there’s no need to worry. We only said good things about you, right, John?”

“Never speak ill of the dead,” John said dutifully.

“Of course, now that you’re not dead . . .” added Irene with a grin. “So, when do you want to pull this thing off?”

Sherlock was about to ask what thing she was talking about when John said, “End of July. I should be well enough by then.”

Irene frowned. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

And Sherlock was about to ask time for what, exactly, but John said, “I want to do it while the lawn is still green. And I don’t want to wait another year.”

Irene sighed. “I guess planning a wedding on the fly is still better than planning a funeral. Okay,” she said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm, “we need to get started pronto. John, your job is to lay there and get better as fast as you can.”

John nodded, and Sherlock observed the dark smudges under his eyes; so tired but still holding up, how very John. And Sherlock knew they should just go and let John rest, but he had the feeling—so similar to when he was sure he’d missed an important clue—there was something unresolved. So though Irene was tugging at him, Sherlock kept his feet planted and asked, “Are you very angry with me, John?”

John sighed. “At moments I am.”

“Right now?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m too tired to be angry right now.” John saw Sherlock’s bemused expression and immediately felt sorry for him; it had taken no little courage on Sherlock’s part to broach the subject of emotions. “You know anger and love don’t cancel one another out.”

Irene smiled encouragingly at John. “Math,” she mouthed from behind Sherlock’s back.

“It’s more like an exponential thing,” John ventured uncertainly, and Sherlock’s expression sharpened with interest. “The more you care about someone, the more capable they are of upsetting you,” John went on. “If you didn’t care, the . . . factor?” He darted a glance at Irene, who nodded enthusiastically. “Would be zero, so . . .”

“It would come to nothing. Wouldn’t matter,” Sherlock concluded.

“Right,” said John.

And now Irene resumed her tugging. “Good. Nice. Now let’s go plan a wedding.”

“Technically it’s a civil partnership ceremony,” Sherlock told her.

“Whatever,” Irene said cheerfully. “It’s going to be a grand party by the time I’m done with it.”

They exited the room, Sherlock throwing one last glance back at John, whose eyes were already closed, his chest rising and falling evenly as he slipped into slumber.

“It won’t be easy,” Irene murmured as she half dragged Sherlock out of the doorway.

“The planning?” Sherlock asked.

“No—” And she jerked her head in the direction of John’s room. “He’s been through a lot.”

“The attack?”

“That too.”

Sherlock frowned. “What else then?”

Irene stopped walking and turned to face him squarely. “God you’re dense sometimes! There’s no easy way to go from mourning someone to marrying them, no switch to flip. There’s rewiring involved.”

“But he said he wants to,” said Sherlock.

“Of course he does. Because part of him believes if he locks you down now he won’t lose you again later.”

Sherlock started walking again. “That’s not a very good reason.”

“No, it isn’t,” Irene agreed, her heels clack-clacking as she took two steps for every one of Sherlock’s long strides. “But he was right about the math. And he does still love you. It’s just—you’re going to have to pull some weeds.”

“Weeds,” Sherlock echoed. “I thought it was wires.”

“Okay, fine, wires then,” Irene said. “However you want to look at it, it’s going to take some work.” She hesitated, peering up at Sherlock’s somber expression as they walked. “How are you handling it?”

“What is there to handle?”

“A lot, I would think. John had a new boyfriend, he almost died, you’re back in London for the first time in two years and everything is different but not really . . .”

“Thank you for the summary.”

“Don’t get snide with me, Sherl, you know it doesn’t work,” said Irene. “Look, I know you had what you thought were good reasons for doing what you did, and it can’t have been an easy decision to make—”

“It wasn’t.”

“Did you ever think it might have been a mistake?” Irene asked.

Sherlock stopped then and looked at her. “Of course not.”

“Because you don’t make mistakes.”

“Because anything that protected John could never be a mistake,” said Sherlock.

Irene melted a bit. “You _do_ have a heart.”

“Not in me.” Sherlock glanced around. “Where are we going?”

Irene shrugged. “To get something to eat? And don’t tell me you’re not hungry,” she added preemptively.

“I’m not.”

“I don’t care. You’re going to take me somewhere nice, and we’re going to discuss wedding plans—” Sherlock grimaced, but Irene ignored it. “And then we’ll bring John something decent to eat, because if hospital food here is anything like it is in the States . . .” She stopped suddenly. “Does Mycroft know?”

“Does Mycroft know what?” Sherlock asked.

“That you’re getting married. You’ll want him to stand with you, won’t you?”

“Why?”

“He’s your brother?” Irene suggested. “He cares about you, and he’s been good to John . . .”

“He’s barely civil to John and wouldn’t be at all if it didn’t go against his breeding to be rude,” said Sherlock.

Irene gave him a quizzical look. “I know they weren’t on speaking terms at first, but what about everything Mycroft did for John when he needed rehab?”

Sherlock felt as if ice were forming around his internal organs. “What are you talking about, Irene?”

It was a low and dangerous tone that Irene had only heard Sherlock use a handful of times in all the years they’d known one another, and immediately she was aware she was in a precarious position. “I don’t . . .” she began, and Sherlock’s frown deepened. “It’s not for me to say,” she told him. “I mean, I thought you knew. Since you’d said Mycroft was keeping you informed of . . . things . . .”

Sherlock looked back down the corridor as if considering returning to John’s room, ostensibly to confront him. “Don’t,” Irene said with a shake of her head. “Don’t do that to him. Talk to Mycroft first at least.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut briefly in an attempt to reset himself, though he filed this new data away for later analysis. “Dinner then,” he said, and Irene let out the breath she’d been holding. “We’ll bring something for John, and I’ll want to speak to his doctor . . .” He turned and nearly walked directly into Mr. Watson.

“Young man,” John’s father said, “I think we should talk.”

Sherlock glanced back at Irene, whose eyes were fairly popping. “There’s a little Indian place around the corner,” he told her. “Tell Stuart I’m on my way. He’ll show you to a table in the far right corner, my usual spot. Go ahead and order; don’t bother waiting for me.”

Irene’s eyes flitted to Mr. Watson then back to Sherlock, who gave a small nod of assurance. So with a small smile and an awkward wave, she took her leave.

“I want to be sure I understand all this,” said Mr. Watson once Irene had turned the corner. Sherlock gave him the same blank stare he applied to Lestrade when the inspector said the same kind of thing before encapsulating the finer points of a case. “You were John’s flatmate. He used to mention you, quite often actually, which probably should have been our first clue.”

Sherlock blinked but did not bother to elaborate or offer any details.

Mr. Watson cocked a bright blue eye at him and continued. “The two of you went on some kind of unannounced trip to Switzerland? And you . . . fell. Off a waterfall.”

Since this seemed to require some kind of confirmation, Sherlock replied, “Yes sir.”

His politeness won him a half smile. “Well then, I suppose we should all be glad you’re alive and well. But where have you been these past two years?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Sherlock.

“Not at—? Now look here—”

“If you’re worried I don’t comprehend the damage my ‘death’ did to John, allow me to put you at ease. I am very much aware of it. But it was the lesser of evils, and in the end it will be for John and I to sort out between us. He needs no intermediary for his feelings, and I would guess he would be angry to learn of your trying to insert yourself into his affairs.”

Mr. Watson’s eyes flashed, and Sherlock steeled himself for the possibility that the man might be moved to physically assault him. But Mr. Watson restrained himself, though it took visible effort, and Sherlock saw that here was where John had learned his self-control, his ability to funnel anger the way good landscaping channeled water away from a house’s foundation.

“He’s my son,” Mr. Watson said. “I wouldn’t see him hurt again.”

Sherlock nodded. He understood this was his warning, the line in the sand.

And with that, Mr. Watson appeared satisfied. He clapped a hand against Sherlock’s arm. “Good man,” he said. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet you sooner, but John seemed to want to keep you all to himself whenever we asked.”

Sherlock was unable to hide his surprise. “You asked?”

“Certainly. He talked so much more about you than about any of his other, er, friends. Made you sound very interesting.”

“I don’t think most people would say so,” Sherlock responded uncertainly.

“I’ll reserve judgment until we get to know you better,” Mr. Watson said.

Sherlock had the fleeting notion that very few people knew him at all, not well at any rate. He’d built his life around a rather flimsy assembly of acquaintances and never felt any worse for it. He could count on one hand the people who could honestly claim to “know” him: John, Irene, maybe Mycroft at a stretch. He wasn’t sure he wanted John’s family to make that list.

But he would need to have some kind of relationship with them. Better it be a polite one, Sherlock supposed. And as John did not appear to be very close to them (though they seemed not to have noticed), it might yet be possible to keep them at arm’s length.

“I should go meet Irene,” Sherlock said, working an apologetic note into his tone. “She wants to plan . . .”

“Right, right,” Mr. Watson said, all indulgence now, though Sherlock didn’t entirely trust it. “We’ll have plenty of time later, I’m sure.” He gave Sherlock’s arm another pat, and as Sherlock walked away, he wondered at how strange the interaction was between men and their adult sons. Not that he knew from experience; Sherlock had been eight when Terrence Holmes had passed away, and he could not imagine what it would be like to have his father there now. Mycroft was bad enough without anyone else trying to take care of him. Though Sherlock suspected his father would have been less invasive than his brother.

By the time he got to Irene, she was half done with her meal, and despite his protests, she insisted on his ordering something as well. There. Someone else trying to take care of him. Sherlock was rapidly becoming convinced he didn’t need another family.

“Well?” Irene asked expectantly after Sherlock had asked Stuart for his usual.

“Well what?”

“What did he want?”

“To adopt me.”

Irene’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “He warned me not to hurt John.”

Irene snorted. “As if you would!”

“But I did, didn’t I?” Sherlock countered matter-of-factly. “He’s only doing his due diligence as a father.”

“But you’re all good now?” Irene asked.

Sherlock shrugged as a plate was laid in front of him. “Box another one of these, would you, Stuart? Please?” Sherlock added when Irene lifted her eyebrows.

“Anything for you, Mr. Holmes!” Stuart said as he bustled off.

Irene suppressed a grin. “Stuart? Not a very Indian name.”

“His real name is Sutej, but he opted to adopt something more mainstream after some legal problems.”

“That you helped him with,” Irene deduced.

Sherlock only shrugged again as he focused on his food; suddenly he was ravenous.

“Well, it’s good you’re square with Mr. Watson,” Irene said, “but it’s Harry you’ll need to watch out for.”

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked.

“Call it woman’s intuition,” Irene told him. When Sherlock made a face, she said, “Or if you need evidence, just consider the look she gave you as she left.”

“We’ll have to limit the alcohol we serve at the ceremony,” said Sherlock thoughtfully, and to his surprise Irene nodded agreement. “He told you?”

Irene only looked at him.

“Then I need you to get him to tell you about Eoin,” Sherlock said. “God knows he won’t tell me.”

“Why?” Irene demanded. “What do you need to know?”

“Anything. Everything. John has a loyal heart; I don’t want this to be because he feels he owes it to me. Worse, he has a soft spot for people he thinks need him, a category I apparently fall into. And I’m not interested in being a charity project.”

“Well,” said Irene, sitting back against her chair, “I’m surprised you’re that self-aware. And yet still remarkably stupid.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he chewed and swallowed. “How so?”

“Knowing about his relationship with Eoin won’t inform yours. The only thing that matters is what happens between the two of you.” When Sherlock appeared unconvinced, she added, “If you need more data, you’ll have to mine it from shared experience.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment before saying, “I can’t go through with this.”

“What?” Irene asked in alarm.

“All my data is old, things have changed, I can’t formulate a conclusion based on—”

“It’s not an equation!” Irene shouted, and around them fellow diners stopped to look. “It’s not even—I mean, if you absolutely need a metaphor, then it’s chemistry. Okay? It’s about how you feel when you’re near him. Or, or—biology. How your bodies react to one another. I don’t know!” she finally exploded. “God, you make talking to you so much damn work!”

Sherlock only stared, afraid anything he said might set her off again.

Irene took in a shaky breath. Released it. “All right,” she said, and again, “all right. You’ve just promised John’s father you won’t hurt John again.”

Sherlock kept staring.

“And what? You’re afraid if you spend the rest of your life with him you won’t be able to keep that promise?”

“I don’t . . . know,” Sherlock admitted. The words pained him; he didn’t like not knowing things. “But maybe he’d be happier with Eoin, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe being with him is a way of hurting him.”

Irene waved the idea away. “You can’t think about it like that. John is a big boy; he can decide whether he wants to be with someone or not, and whether that someone is good for him or not.”

They sat in silence for some minutes, and Stuart hesitantly approached the table with the take away box. “Thank you, Stuart,” Sherlock said absently.

“Of course. Anything . . .” Stuart backed away.

“You help people,” Irene reminded her friend. “Like Stuart. You’re allowed to help yourself, too. And part of helping yourself is giving yourself permission to be happy.”

“I can only be happy if John is happy,” Sherlock told her.

“That makes it easy,” said Irene. “Make him happy.”

Sherlock stood and Irene followed suit. He handed her the take away box. “This should be a start,” he said.

Irene took it with a frown. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I need to talk to Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “Unless there’s anything you want to tell me first?”

Irene blanched but shook her head, and Sherlock sighed. Talking to Irene would be far preferable to having to attempt anything like a conversation with his brother, but clearly she wasn’t going to be forthcoming. And she was right that now would not be the time to confront John.

“All right,” Sherlock said. He was trying to be gentle, despite his underlying irritation; the subject obviously caused Irene distress. “Tell him I’ll be by to see him soon.”

Still looking as if she were being faced with a firing squad, Irene nodded. “Don’t show him that face,” Sherlock told her. “He’ll think we’ve had a falling out.”

But when Irene’s eyes began to fill with tears, something in Sherlock fluttered in panic. “It can’t be that bad,” he said, to convince himself as much as Irene. “He’s here, he’s alive.”

Irene blinked away her tears. “Right,” she said, holding up the box and braving a smile. “And he’s probably hungry.”


	8. Chapter 8

THOUGH IT TOOK no little time—or maybe exactly because it took so much time—Sherlock chose to walk to Kensington. There were few things he disliked more than having to spend any amount of time in Mycroft’s company, but e-mail would have been insufficient, and Sherlock preferred to be able to see his brother’s facial expressions (what there were of them) when speaking to him. Never mind Sherlock’s aversion to the phone.

Small talk having no value, Sherlock went directly to the point when he entered the flat and found Mycroft making tea in the kitchen. “Irene says you helped John through a relapse.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly to the point, given that he’d opted for a euphemism, but Sherlock rationalized it was better than pointing out whatever tea Mycroft was brewing smelled like sweaty socks.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and made a face that suggested it also tasted like sweaty socks. “And did she say anything else?”

“She told me to talk to you about it.”

Mycroft harrumphed in a way that caused Sherlock to think his brother didn’t want to talk about it any more than Irene. “Tea?”

“God, no. It smells awful.”

“It _is_ awful. But good for the digestion.”

Sherlock briefly considered being truly mean by telling Mycroft he looked like he’d gained weight over the past couple years but decided against giving his brother an opening for a diversion. “Tell me what happened.”

“What’s to tell? He started taking this, that and some other things—”

“Not heroin again?”

Mycroft sniffed in derision. “How well do you know John, Sherlock? Is he the sort to go looking for street drugs?”

The answer, of course, was no. And what was more— “The clinic,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded. “Easy enough place to get a fix.”

“But you were on to him.”

“We weren’t peeking through the windows for God’s sake,” Mycroft growled, and Sherlock knew this was the closest his brother ever came to admitting an oversight. “Irene called me when he overdosed.”

Sherlock didn’t follow. “How did Irene know?”

“She was there at the time.” Mycroft leaned his weight against a counter and took another hesitant sip of his tea.

“Where?” Sherlock asked. “The flat? He took an overdose of drugs while she was there?”

“Don’t look to me for details, Sherlock; they weren’t pertinent, so I didn’t ask.”

Sherlock looked hard at his brother, trying to read the utter lack of expression on his face. “You always know the details.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft chuckled a little. “Yes, don’t I?”

With a huff of impatience, Sherlock abandoned that line of inquiry, though he was determined he would get answers for it sooner or later. “When was this?”

“That first Hallowe’en. He’s been clean since that Christmas; there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Sherlock snapped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I couldn’t afford to have you traipsing home from your work in Tibet and Nepal. And now you’ve left me hanging in Turkey,” Mycroft added crossly.

But Sherlock had caught on. “You can’t be all that upset about it, or you wouldn’t have told me about Eoin either.”

A small smile formed on Mycroft’s lips. “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why did you help him?”

Mycroft sighed and set the unfinished tea on the counter. “Because if I hadn’t, you would never have forgiven me.”

Sherlock met his brother’s gaze but was unable to hold it for long for fear that something inside him might give way, though to what exactly he wasn’t sure. It made Sherlock restless, this feeling, and he started for the door, saying, “I need to speak to his doctor, find out when he can be discharged . . .” He paused on the threshold. “Mycroft . . .”

His brother turned to look over the bar and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“Your diet is working for you,” Sherlock told him as he pulled the door closed in his wake.

~*~

LAUGHTER FROM INSIDE the room gave Sherlock pause. Irene’s laughter, cheerful and unrestrained, followed by the low tone of John’s voice and another of Irene’s giggles. Sherlock absorbed this, added it to what he knew, and opened the door.

John looked up; Irene looked away. She sat perched on the vinyl chair and stared at the already wilting flowers behind her as if they were the most wondrous things she’d ever seen. But even with her head turned and much of her hair in the way, Sherlock could see she was blushing.

Then he looked at John, who gazed back with the open and expectant expression of someone who has been waiting—for his dinner, for his turn in line, for his dead fiancé to appear—and has finally been granted his wish. There was no reservation to be had; in fact, John appeared almost eager, and something inside Sherlock grew a little warm. “You had a good dinner, John?” he asked, feeling the sudden need to be gentle.

“Yes. Thank you. I have no idea what it was, but it tasted much better than whatever the nurse tried to feed me.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with it much longer,” Sherlock told him. “Dr. Ruskin says you might be released in a couple more days, provided you promise not to exert yourself.”

And now John flushed slightly in that sweet way he had, which used to exasperate Sherlock but now made Sherlock want to go kiss him, a lot, though that probably landed on Dr. Ruskin’s list of prohibitions. And John was thinking the same thing, Sherlock guessed, based on the way he was growing steadily redder.

Having composed herself, Irene had turned around, and though she was smiling, there was tightness around her eyes that gave away her apprehension. “I should go,” she said, too brightly, as she rose from the chair. “Someone has to babysit Mycroft, after all.”

Sherlock shifted his attention to her, the directness of his gaze holding her in place. Contrary to what many might have believed, Sherlock had a vivid imagination; he needed such a one in order to visualize pieces of the cases he worked on so that he could snap them together when creating the bigger picture. He was not given to daydreams or flights of fancy, only rumination. But there were still large gaps in the puzzle he was currently working on, and for some reason this time he was having difficulty stopping his imagination from running loose.

“Sherlock?” John asked with a worried frown.

Sherlock turned to him, and freed of his stare, Irene walked hastily to the door. Hesitated. “Are you coming back to Kensington later?”

This, in turn, confused John, who asked, “You’re not staying at the flat?”

But Sherlock was looking at Irene again. He needed more information, something to work with. “Why were you there, Irene? That Hallowe’en?”

Her eyes darted desperately to John, but he clearly wasn’t comprehending the conversation. “What?” he asked.

So Sherlock turned back to him and asked, “Why take an overdose of drugs while Irene is visiting?”

If Sherlock had slapped him, John couldn’t have appeared any more stunned. “I didn’t know she was home,” he finally answered.

Sherlock grew very still. He felt as if he were snatching at airborne threads and trying to weave them into something useful—a blanket, maybe, to ward off the chill growing around him.

“Home,” he echoed, his mouth suddenly dry. Another piece of the puzzle, and he didn’t much like the picture that was forming.

“It isn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .” said Irene, fumbling for words.

“It was a long time ago,” John said, looking discomfited.

“But not as long ago as me,” said Sherlock.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” John told him. “I was trying to cope.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sherlock asked. He’d been prepared to deal with Eoin, a threat that all evidence now suggested had been flimsy at most, the devotion one-sided with John acting as a passive participant. But the idea of John and Irene, of her being privy to all the tastes and smells of him, of his mouth and hands on her, made Sherlock acutely nauseous. He swayed a little where he stood and wondered idly if he were about to collapse, but suddenly two cool hands were on his cheeks, and Irene eclipsed John in his view.

“Sherl,” she said in a low voice, “it’s not like you to jump to conclusions before having all the facts.”

“Then by all means, enlighten me.”

But she didn’t say anything more. She just held his face and stared, as if willing him to understand.

And after a few minutes, he did.

“Oh, Irene,” Sherlock sighed, relief and pity abruptly capping the wellspring of queasiness within him. “You have terrible taste in men.”

“I have impeccable taste in men,” Irene corrected. “They’re just always involved with other men.”

“Dead ones?”

“Who can compete?” Irene asked with a sad smile.

Eoin again flashed through Sherlock’s mind, but the boy hardly seemed to constitute competition.

“If you’re having a moment, I can leave,” John offered testily. “Except, no, I can’t.”

Sherlock met his gaze. “I’m sorry, John.”

John shook his head and looked away, frustrated at his inability to follow what was going on.

“But why were you staying at the flat?” Sherlock asked Irene.

“I couldn’t very well leave him alone,” she said. “When I was around, he was less likely to take anything.”

“Then I should be grateful you were there.” He paused. “If nothing happened, why were you so reluctant to tell me?”

Irene grimaced. “Because on the surface, the evidence is pretty damning.”

“You know me better than that,” Sherlock said. “I never take evidence just from the surface.”

“You almost did this time,” Irene pointed out.

“I’m still here, by the way,” said John. “If it matters to anyone.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Irene and turned to John. “Did you sleep with Irene?”

John drew back against his pillows. “What?” He turned a hard gaze on Irene. “What are you telling him?”

“He’s just being an ass,” Irene assured him.

John scowled at Sherlock. “Why? Because I took a few pills?”

“But she was living at the flat,” Sherlock said in the same tone newsmen used to confirm a fact.

“She . . . stayed a while to—to help me sort through your things,” John retorted with flustered indignity.

“Then where did she sleep?” Sherlock asked.

“My room.”

This was not the answer Sherlock had expected, and he took an involuntary step back as his tease backfired and ricocheted. “Your room?”

Irene shot John a warning look and said, “Yes, but John was sleeping in _your_ room.”

John and Sherlock locked eyes. “I didn’t want anyone else in there,” John finally admitted.

Taking this as a cue to depart, Irene gave Sherlock’s hand a small squeeze and said, “I’ll see you back at Mycroft’s, okay?”

Sherlock nodded to show he’d heard.

“You’re not staying at the flat?” John asked again.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me there. It’s not really mine any more.”

John tried to shrug but received a stabbing pain from his right shoulder for his effort. “All your things are still there.”

“I thought Irene helped you sort it,” said Sherlock.

“She did. It’s sorted and . . . All there. In your room. If you want it.”

Sherlock moved forward, briefly considered the hideous chair, then took a seat on the edge of the bed instead. “I’m sorry, John,” he said again, and it occurred to him that he would most likely be saying it for the rest of his life.

“For what?” John asked.

“All of it.”

They were silent for a moment. Then John said, “Not . . . _all_ of it . . .”

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.

“Not . . . the letter, I hope?”

It took Sherlock a minute to fathom his meaning. “The one I left for you? No, I’m not sorry for that.”

“Or that last night?” John went on.

Sherlock smiled slightly. “No.”

“Saving my life?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not all bad then,” John said softly.

Sherlock sighed. “I really want to kiss you.”

“I really want you to kiss me,” said John.

But Sherlock frowned as he considered John’s condition. “I wouldn’t want to risk hurting you.”

“Then go slow and be gentle.”

No easy task for Sherlock. But, he reasoned as he leaned in, nothing easy had ever been worth doing.

~*~

_4 May  
Two Years Earlier_

JOHN TRIED TO keep up with the woman from the hotel, but she was far more familiar with and surefooted on the terrain, and he quickly fell behind. This didn’t worry him; he assumed whoever was in need of a doctor would be easy enough to locate once he got there.

He was wrong, of course.

When he arrived, the hotel lobby was vacant; even the desk lacked staff. John had to ring the bell several times before anyone appeared. “I was told there was someone here in need of an English-speaking doctor,” he told the man impatiently. Because now he was starting to worry; medical needs were nothing to take lightly.

But the attendant knew nothing about it, and neither did anyone else who came to speak to him: a concierge, a bellman, the hotel manager—this last to whom John showed the note he’d received.

Then the manager’s eyes lit with understanding. He held up a finger to indicate that John should wait and disappeared into his office, returning a minute later with another envelope. John accepted it with little grace but froze when he saw his name written on it. The handwriting was Sherlock’s.

“Thank you,” John mumbled to the manager as he turned from the counter. Where should he go to read it? Not here, where anyone could see him. John wasn’t sure why, but he was fairly certain he should read whatever the envelope contained in private. But he didn’t want to go back to their room, either. 

Maybe he should just go right back up the falls and confront Sherlock directly.

Yes, that was what he would do.

John shoved the envelope into his pocket and hauled himself back to the waterfall that was rapidly losing any sense of awe or majesty it might have initially held. And the more he thought about the whole situation, the angrier he got. What was Sherlock playing at? If he hadn’t wanted John with him, why not just say so? Why create such an elaborate game? Was Sherlock bored now? With traveling, or with John himself?

By the time he came to the place where he’d last seen Sherlock, John had concluded he should have stayed in bed that morning. He climbed the rest of the way to the Falls, pausing to scan the area, but he saw no sign of Sherlock. Or anyone else for that matter.

John sighed. He’d been well and truly abandoned.

He found a sizable boulder and took a seat, then pulled out the letter, now a bit bent up from being wedged into his pocket. Looked at his name written so neatly—not Sherlock’s typical, hurried scrawl, but something more careful. And yet his handwriting all the same.

After a minute, John turned the envelope over and opened it.

The letter inside started without preamble or salutation, and John spared a moment to simply admire the straight, even lines of text on the heavy, unruled hotel stationery. The form of Sherlock’s writing was a precise as the man himself.

_I liked you from the minute we first met, and I started to love you the moment I realized you were the one who shot the cabbie. I’ve never had much concern for my own person, but I’ve never felt safer than when in your arms, and the decision to break that embrace was not made lightly or easily. But John, there is only one thing on the breadth of this planet that I could not possibly do without, and that is you. I have never loved or trusted someone as I do you, and let me apologize posthumously—_

If it were possible to stumble while reading, John did so then. Posthumously? He stopped and looked around again, down the mountainside, up at the Falls, a sick sense of dread starting in his stomach.

_—let me apologize posthumously for being such a poor student in these things. My talents, I fear, lie elsewhere, and for me the learning curve was steep. But you taught me to swim, John, and I’m glad not to go out of this world never having learned how._

_As you’ve probably already guessed, Moriarty is here—_

The sense of dread deepened. John had not guessed anything of the kind, but now he was both terrified and compelled to finish reading what Sherlock had to say.

_As you’ve probably already guessed, Moriarty is here, and today we will resolve the issues between us. This is why I sent you back to the hotel on false pretenses; I could not put you in danger. Forgive me for dipping toward the poetic, but you are my heart, and so long as you are alive, I find the rest of me fails to matter._

_Mycroft has all the necessary files I’ve compiled to begin dismantling Moriarty’s extensive syndicate, and you already know the terms of my will. You can send my regards to Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade as you see fit. And always believe that I am_

_Yours truly,  
Sherlock Holmes_

John stared at the page in his hand long past the point in which he was still able to read it, his vision having blurred and his brain gone numb. At some juncture he realized he was holding his breath and began taking in air again. And some minutes after that he finally put the letter back into its envelope and returned it to his pocket. Then he stood, shakily, and climbed toward the Falls until he found the markings in the soft, wet soil that proved someone had recently been there before him. More than one person, in fact, given the two separate sole imprints and the distinctly different sizes of the shoes.

_You did teach me something, after all_ , John thought, though there was no satisfaction in it.

The markings continued up to the platform that overlooked most of the waterfall. Mud on that platform and a broken railing confirmed what John already knew, but he stretched himself out on the waterlogged wood anyway, and gazed down into the roaring cascade. Nothing. There was nothing but tons of water, icy from the spring melt, falling nearly 100 meters into the pool below. John was forced to squint against the spray. And that was fine. Because it was as good an excuse as any for the wetness of his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's drug habit is referred to as a "relapse" based on events in "Ganymede Cup." Sherlock says "heroin again" because the drug manufactured in that story was heroin based.


	9. Chapter 9

“WHY?” JOHN ASKED quietly.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He’d removed to the guest chair when the kissing had come dangerously close to going too far. Not that he wouldn’t have risked it, but John had made it absolutely clear how he felt about the possibility of getting caught out by a nurse, never mind potential damage to his wounds. At some point, Sherlock realized now, he must have drifted off. And Mycroft had been right; he was sorry for it. His neck was stiff from the awkward angle at which it had fallen.

Sitting up, Sherlock rolled his shoulders and asked, “Why what?”

“I had my gun,” said John. “I could have done something to help.”

All at once Sherlock understood. “And what if he’d had a gun? Or if he hadn’t been alone? What if he’d brought one of his marksmen along? I couldn’t risk it,” said Sherlock. “I couldn’t risk _you_.” He paused with a frown. “Didn’t I make that clear in my letter?”

But John was staring into space, lost in some internal corridor of thought.

Then Sherlock said, “I need you to tell me about Eoin.”

It took a moment for the words to pierce whatever fog John was wandering it, but when they did he dragged his eyes back to Sherlock and asked, “What about him?”

“Did I . . . Did my coming back . . . interrupt something?”

“Maybe,” said John. “I don’t know. We hadn’t been together very long.” He sighed. “I should have been nicer to him.”

Sherlock searched his face. “Do you miss him? Want him back?”

John shook his head. “Not particularly. It sounds awful, but really it’s simply that he was persistent, and I didn’t care enough one way or another.”

John could feel Sherlock watching every movement, looking for signs that John might be glossing over the truth. And so John forced himself to stay still, despite how fidgety the scrutiny made him.

“He said he was a nurse at the clinic,” said Sherlock.

“Is this an interrogation?” John asked suddenly. “What do you want to know, Sherlock? How we met, or what happened the first time we slept together, or—” When Sherlock blanched, John added impatiently, “You don’t expect me to believe you were celibate for two years?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “But I was traveling too much for anything serious. And I never stopped wishing it were you.”

“Yes, well, as far as I knew, you were dead and no amount of wishing was going to change that.” Realizing how harsh he sounded, he stopped. Took a deep breath. “With Eoin I was just trying to construct something as close to normal as I felt I was ever going to get.”

“Seems like the drugs would be counterproductive to that,” said Sherlock.

“I’ve been off them for almost a year and a half,” John told him. “Thanks to Irene. And Mycroft,” he added grudgingly.

“I should probably tell him about the ceremony,” Sherlock said absently. “God, I hope Irene hasn’t said anything yet.” He stood. “I should probably—”

John nodded.

“You expect your parents and sister to visit again tomorrow,” Sherlock said.

“Mum would have stayed the night if I’d given her the option,” said John, and Sherlock smiled.

“Mummy’s boy, eh?”

John scowled. “And Harry’s, too, if I ever let her have her way.”

Sherlock raised his brows.

“She’s bossy,” John said.

“Mm, well, I know about bossy siblings,” said Sherlock.

“And opinionated, and mean when she doesn’t get her way,” John went on. “Kind of like you, actually.”

“Yes, but I don’t drink or talk incessantly on the phone.”

“And Harry is capable of cooking and doing laundry. So I think you come out even,” said John.

“I can cook,” Sherlock protested.

“I mean food, not chemistry projects,” John said.

“Well, if you’re going to be picky . . .”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked upward, and Sherlock relaxed, only then realizing he’d been tense. It felt good to be with John again, but still awkward, like going back to class after having been sent to the headmaster. One more infraction might lead to expulsion.

“I’ll send them all off tomorrow,” John promised, “though Mum will want to know about the plans.”

“Tell her to talk to Irene,” said Sherlock, and John’s face fell a little.

“You don’t have any opinion about it?”

“A minute ago I was too opinionated and now I’m not opinionated enough?” Sherlock countered.

“I’m just trying to understand whether it matters to you at all,” said John.

“What’s it for? Does it prove something?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve always assumed it’s more for the guests than the two people being married.”

“Us,” John said. “We’re the two people being married.”

Sherlock was aware they were on the verge of an argument. Not the way he wanted to leave things before returning to Mycroft’s. So he switched tracks slightly by saying, “When they let you out of here, we’ll go back up to Weald House and start planning. Yes?”

John eyed him carefully, but unable to find any trick in the words, finally nodded his agreement.

“Just be prepared to be railroaded by Irene,” Sherlock warned.

John’s smile was thinner this time.

“Speaking of whom . . .” said Sherlock, suddenly desperate to fill the empty air that John was creating with his silence. It unnerved him, though he wasn’t sure why; normally John was the one to chatter, and Sherlock could go for days without saying more than two words.

“Yes, you should go save her from Mycroft. Or vice versa,” said John.

Sherlock turned for the door but stopped short of exiting. “Blue?” he asked.

John’s mind had already begun to wander again, and he started in surprise. “Pardon?”

“Can we use blue for some of the decoration? It’s my—”

“Favorite color. Yes, I know,” John said. “You like that color that’s really dark but not navy, like the sky right before full night.”

Sherlock blinked. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

“Of course I know it. And yes, blue is fine.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, and then he was gone.

John sighed. _And he didn’t even kiss me goodbye._

~*~

 

“SHERLOCK!” IRENE CALLED as he strolled down the hallway, headed for the kitchen and on from there to the stables. He momentarily considered walking faster, then decided he would only pay dearly for it later. So he stopped and backed up to where Irene stood in the dining room.

Irene and—

“There must be a dozen cakes in here,” Sherlock said, surveying the laden table.

“Eighteen, actually. Where’s John?”

Sherlock immediately became suspicious. “Why?”

“You need to pick a cake,” Irene said.

“Right now?”

“They’re here. You’re here.”

Sherlock sighed. “Is there any lemon?”

Irene dutifully began checking the tags that sat in front of each cake. “This one is lemon chiffon,” she said.

“Good. Fine. We’ll do that one,” said Sherlock, turning to go.

“Don’t you even want to taste it?” Irene asked.

“I’m sure it’s perfectly adequate.”

“But what about John?” Irene persisted. “Does he like lemon?”

“Of course he likes lemon; who doesn’t like lemon?”

“I don’t,” John said, appearing in the doorway. “What are we talking about? Oh! Cake.”

Irene shot Sherlock an I-told-you-so look as John entered and began examining the various pastries. “This one is nice,” he said, stopping in front of a Wedgwood blue confection with lacy white designs.

“Looks like a doily,” said Sherlock, adding darkly, “And it probably has nuts in it.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Irene said cheerily. “No nuts, no doilies. We’re narrowing it down at least.”

“No lemon,” said John.

“And no raisins,” Sherlock put in.

Irene began circling the table. “So that eliminates . . .” She began turning cards face down on the table. “But that’s just flavor,” she said. “You can have any of these designs, depending on the kind of icing you want.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. “I don’t really fancy it being chocolate,” John said tentatively. When Sherlock nodded, Irene made another pass, turning more cards down.

“And I just as soon it be white, like a normal wedding cake,” said Sherlock.

“Traditional,” Irene corrected.

John gave a little shrug. “Fine with me.”

After ruling out strawberry because Harry was allergic and raspberry because it upset Mycroft’s stomach (not that he needed to be eating cake, but Sherlock reasoned he probably would have some anyway), and agreeing that buttercream would be better than cream cheese for the icing, they settled on a peaches-and-cream cake that would be decorated white-on-white to reduce the “doily effect” but still satisfy John’s sense of style. Though at the end of it, the person who appeared to be most pleased was Irene.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” she told them with a wide smile.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “It took far too long; I meant to be at the stables an hour ago.”

“And I was going to have breakfast, but now I’m full of cake,” said John, adding when Sherlock turned to leave, “Where are you going now?”

“For my ride.”

“My parents are coming today,” John reminded him.

Sherlock stopped to give this statement his full consideration before saying, “I don’t see what that has to do with my ride.”

“You don’t want to be here when they arrive?” John asked.

“They’re staying for two weeks, John; I’m sure to see them at some point. Dinner this evening, if not before.”

Sensing the growing tension, Irene turned to John and said, “We’ve converted the old nursery rooms on the third floor for your parents and sister.” She turned to Sherlock and continued, “And space for your mom, too, when she gets here.”

But neither man was listening. “They’re going to think you’re avoiding them,” said John.

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Fine, I’ll stay. I’ll just go change and—”

“Well, if you’re just going to sulk, don’t bother,” John snapped.

“Why are they coming so early? It’s three weeks yet until the ceremony.”

“And they’d like to get to know you before then,” John said. “But if you’re going to make a bad impression by being surly and rude . . .”

“I’m not!” Sherlock protested. “I just want to be able to do what I do and be left alone to do it!”

John snorted and looked away.

“Okay,” Irene said after a minute, “maybe we all just need a little break, so . . . More cake?”

Sherlock looked at her as if she’d gone mad, but she only gestured vaguely behind John’s back in a way Sherlock couldn’t interpret. He looked a question at her, which only caused her to gesture more emphatically.

Sherlock wracked his otherwise well-stocked brain for something suitable and came up with, “Do either of your parents ride, John?”

“Ha!” John swiftly suffixed his involuntary bark of laughter with, “Sorry. Uh, no.” He paused. “I’ll have some of the carrot cake, Irene; it might be the last time I get to have any, if Sherlock gets his way.”

“I’m not going to stop you from eating carrot cake. Just don’t ask me to eat any,” said Sherlock.

Irene cut the carrot cake, plated a slice and handed it to John. “Sherlock?”

“Lemon,” he answered, darting a meaningful look at John.

Irene smiled wanly. “I should have guessed that.”

“Never assume, and try not to guess if you can avoid it,” Sherlock told her as she brought over his plate.

“But sometimes you have to,” she surmised.

“Yes.”

“And sometimes you have to go with your gut,” Irene went on. “Or your heart.”

Sherlock looked again to John, who was intent on his cake. “Yes,” he said again, handing back the nearly untouched slice of lemon chiffon. “Come on, John.”

John’s head came up. “What?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“Dr. Ruskin hasn’t cleared me for riding yet; you know that.”

“We’ll go easy,” Sherlock promised, “and Tim says the horses miss you.”

As expected, the appeal to John’s affection for the horses held sway. “But my parents—”

“Won’t be here before lunch, if my educated _guess_ proves correct,” said Sherlock with a glance at Irene. “And if it doesn’t . . .” Sherlock shrugged.

“I’ll be here to welcome them,” Irene offered. “And Mrs. Grossman will make sure they get something to eat.”

John looked from one to the other of them, then set his plate on the table. “All right, just let me go change.” Though his tone was as much resigned as hopeful.

Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s departure until Irene nudged him and said, “Stop that.”

“It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?” Sherlock muttered.

“You looking at his ass?”

“No, like choosing cake,” said Sherlock.

“You’ve just showed you can do it,” Irene pointed out.

“But to whose satisfaction?” Sherlock asked.

He left before Irene could formulate an answer.


	10. Chapter 10

JOHN TRIED NOT to dwell while changing his clothes, and whenever he started to dwell, he told himself the stress and strain of planning was to blame for the flares of temper both he and Sherlock had been subject to of late. It was one thing after another: guest lists and seating charts, menus, flowers, invitations, tailors, photographers, music, and now cake. Add to all this the fact that Sherlock was far from his natural habitat of the intensity of London, that John continued to be restricted by doctors’ orders, and that Irene had put them in separate bedrooms, and the result was a steady decline in goodwill from all sides.

Well, maybe not _all_ sides. Irene was as chipper as ever, and Mrs. Grossman was ridiculously happy about the whole affair. The locals, too, after overcoming the shock of Sherlock’s miraculous return; John, Sherlock and Irene had invitations to dinner at least once a week, more often two or three. And to John’s surprise, Sherlock almost always agreed and was incredibly charming to everyone. John could only guess that Weald House had become boring for Sherlock, and that these dinners were brief alleviations.

Now John stood in the small yellow guest room (renovations to the master suite having cut into this room’s space), digging through the wardrobe for his underutilized riding clothes. Sherlock had his usual room, of course, and Irene had taken up guard in the green room. She had some romantic idea that waiting would make things better later, but John would have preferred they be better _now_. It made little difference, however, based on Dr. Ruskin’s prohibitions.

Not that Dr. Ruskin would have felt any more kindly about John going horseback riding.

As he dressed, John fleetingly thought of his parents’ arrival, and it occurred to him that he ought to at least go up and see what Irene had done to the third floor. It had been the nursery and nanny’s quarters, long disused, though a room over the gallery had been made into a sort of conservatory, complete with dusty grand piano and a smattering of other instruments and sheaves of old sheet music. Like the gallery directly below it, it was a long room, and John wondered if that was where parties had been held. Assuming they’d ever been held at Weald House.

Of course, they’d opted to hold the ceremony on the east lawn, just as John had originally envisioned; hopefully the weather would cooperate. It was to be on the last day of July, and historically (John knew because he’d looked it up) the area did not usually get rain on that day. There were tents and a false floor for the dinner and reception, but the ceremony itself would be under the open sky.

John located his boots—lovingly cleaned by Mrs. Grossman after the last time he’d worn them, which had been the day Sherlock had returned—and decided to carry them downstairs and put them on in the kitchen. He hoped this might forestall any grousing on Sherlock’s part about the additional wait, though Sherlock had been deeply considerate on the whole when it came to John’s recovery, including the fact that it still took John more time to do some things. Like dress. Bending over the wound in his left side, working the stiffness out of his right shoulder . . . These things were getting easier, but it was taking longer than John liked. Sherlock, on the other hand, was almost eerily patient in these matters, even solicitous, except when in a pet about something else. Like the imminent arrival of future in-laws.

Boots in hand, John took the stairs slowly and headed for the kitchen, where he found Sherlock standing by the counter sipping a cup of tea. “Had to wash down all that cake,” he explained, as if he needed some kind of excuse. “Want any?”

“No thanks.” John took a seat in one of the chairs that surrounded the old wood table at the far end of the room and pulled on his boots, aware that Sherlock was watching without appearing to watch at all. “Ready?” John asked him once he’d managed the task with what he hoped was minimal wincing and grimacing.

Sherlock set his cup on the counter and preceded John to the door, opening it and holding it for him. John mumbled a thank you and stepped out into the mid-summer warmth.

Immediately he felt better, and he saw Sherlock’s shoulders relax, too, as he pulled the door closed behind them. _This was how we’re meant to be_ , John thought as they walked in charitable silence to the stables, the tension blowing off of them like so much dust. _The two of us, off and doing. And Sherlock does so much better when he has something to occupy him, something other than wedding plans at any rate._

John allowed his shoulder to bump Sherlock’s arm in a semi-affectionate gesture, the type that could be easily shrugged off if it became clear that Sherlock was not feeling open to such things at the moment. But Sherlock merely glanced at John, then reached for his hand. Frowned slightly. “Does that hurt?” he asked.

“What?” John retorted, momentarily confused by the question. “No,” John assured him once he’d concluded that Sherlock was worried about his shoulder, “it’s fine.”

Sherlock relaxed again and gave the hand a small squeeze. John suddenly realized how much he missed being close to this man. It was easy enough in a tiny flat in London—sometimes that was too close. But out here, and in separate bedrooms ( _stupid Irene_ , John thought unkindly and was almost instantly sorry because he genuinely liked Irene), and under doctors’ orders and the watchful eyes—mostly benevolent and loving, too, yes, but always ready for gossip—of everyone around them, there was too much space between them. Never mind the two years they’d lost besides.

So after waving to Tim as they passed the paddock and entering the quiet shade of the stables, John turned to Sherlock and kissed him. Hard and persistently, just to be sure he got his point across.

“That’s not fair,” Sherlock murmured to him.

“How do you mean?”

“You’re going to get me started, and then where will I be?”

“Here. With me,” said John. He glanced down the long row of stalls. Although many had tenants, either present or out for exercise, there were at least three that stood empty on a regular basis. One of which was used to store extra hay so that Tim didn’t have to go up to the loft as often. “We could go for a ride,” John suggested meaningfully.

Sherlock started visibly. “You’re not supposed to.”

“I’m not supposed to ride a horse, either.”

John watched with fascination as Sherlock’s breathing sped up, the pulse in his neck fluttering, even as he was clearly torn. “What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, and when John was sure Sherlock would put forth no additional protest, he took his fiancé’s hand and led him to the last stall on the right, dry and piled with fresh hay for the day, and kicked the door closed behind them.

~*~

THEY DISCOVERED THAT hay was not necessarily the ideal form of bedding, given its tendency to stick, but they didn’t let it stop them. And in the end, as they lay utterly covered in straw, John said, “I hope we didn’t scare the horses.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock said. “We aren’t the first people to use the stable as a trysting place.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve done this before?”

“No. But Mycroft used to.”

“Mycroft?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was either here or the boathouse, and even with the hazards of hay, I’d guess this has to be more comfortable.”

John blinked rapidly as if to clear his vision of a mental image. “I don’t think I want to know this.”

“We could try the boathouse next time, as a form of empirical research,” Sherlock suggested.

“Or I could just move into your room,” John said.

“Irene would give us grief.”

John pushed closer. “I’ve done with grieving. I’m ready to celebrate having you back.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock. “As tempting as that is—”

John tensed, waiting to see in what form the rejection would come.

“—if you want either of us to be clean and presentable by the time your parents arrive—”

“Shit!” John sat up so swiftly his body went to great pains to remind him of its injuries, and he flinched and hissed volubly.

“John?” Sherlock sat up also. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I just—” John caught sight of Sherlock’s expression. “You’re really worried.”

“Of course I am. You’re okay?”

“Yeah.” John hesitated. “That’s why you didn’t protest when she put us in separate rooms?”

“One of the reasons,” said Sherlock. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted. If maybe you weren’t . . . quite ready to have me back. And then sometimes it’s just easier to let Irene do whatever.”

“Irene’s done plenty,” said John.

“Well, she took care of you for me, so I owe her a bit.”

“Not this much, you don’t,” John told him.

“Move your things into my room then,” Sherlock said, “and if Irene needs to sleep with earplugs it’ll be her own fault.”

~*~

AFTER MAKING THEMSELVES as neat and hay-free as they could, John and Sherlock returned to the house with the sole intention of showering (separately, just to keep focus) and readying for the arrival of John’s parents. But Mrs. Grossman was already preparing lunch in the kitchen, and when she asked, “Did you have a nice ride, then, lads?” John’s stricken expression nearly gave the game away. Lucky for them she was intent on her work.

“Yes, Mrs. Grossman, we did,” Sherlock answered smoothly, grabbing a fresh-baked biscuit as he passed the counter.

“Don’t ruin your lunch now,” Mrs. Grossman warned. It had taken her some time to get used to the notion that Sherlock (who she thought of as “the man who had upset Mr. John”) was the rightful master of the house, though Sherlock had made it easier by leaving things much in John’s hands.

“I’m starving; all I’ve had is cake.”

“That’s not _all_ you’ve had,” said John, and Sherlock threw him a surprised look; John usually wasn’t daring with his conversation.

Mrs. Grossman appeared unaware of the entendre. “Must have worked up an appetite with all that exercise,” she said. “You should probably go clean up in any case. Can’t come to the table smelling of the stables, and Miss Adler said Mr. John’s parents called to say they would be here within the hour.”

“Why would they call Irene and not me?” John asked.

“Said you weren’t answering your phone,” Mrs. Grossman told him. “Probably can’t hear it when you’re riding.”

“Probably not,” Sherlock agreed, finishing off the biscuit and heading for the stairs. “My horse can be especially loud. Gee up, John.”

But despite an effort to be prompt, John’s parents were already ensconced in the library with Irene as their hostess by the time Sherlock and John came back downstairs. Mrs. Watson hopped up from the couch the moment she spotted them, diving for a hug first from her son, then aiming for a startled Sherlock. “There you are!” she crooned.

Sherlock threw John a helpless look.

“Mum, let up a bit, yeah?” said John.

Mrs. Watson obliged by releasing Sherlock and stepping back. “How are you boys holding up? Nervous? Oh, it’s all right,” she went on without waiting for answers. “It’s normal to have nerves.

“Harry will be out at the end of next week,” Mrs. Watson continued. “And we were that sorry to hear Eoin wouldn’t be attending—”

“Denise,” said Mr. Watson in a futile attempt to curb his wife.

But Sherlock was looking at Irene now, who was cringing, and John asked sharply, “Eoin? He wasn’t invited.”

“Well . . .” said Irene, “see . . . Okay, here’s what happened. Sarah gave me the list of people from the clinic, and it didn’t occur to me that _that_ Eoin was the same as _your_ Eoin—”

“He’s not my anything,” John interjected.

“I mean, I didn’t even know it was pronounced that way, but . . . He declined anyway, so no harm done, right?”

“It would have been rude to exclude him under the circumstances,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, aren’t you a dear!” Mrs. Watson exclaimed, reaching up to pat his cheeks. She looked at her son. “Good breeding.”

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Irene added with an apologetic look at Sherlock, “Christopher _is_ planning to attend. Now why don’t I just go see how Mrs. Grossman is coming along with lunch?” And with that she hastily retreated.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. “You invited Christopher?” John asked.

“No.”

“And who is Christopher?” Mrs. Watson asked avidly.

“Stay out of it, dear,” said Mr. Watson.

“Well, _I_ didn’t put him on the list,” John said.

“It had to have been Irene,” said Sherlock. “Though I can’t imagine what she was thinking.”

“Throttle her later?”

“Delighted.”

Irene appeared in the doorway looking well aware of the trouble she was in, though she attempted to belie it with a wide smile. “Lunch,” she announced, “is ready.”


	11. Chapter 11

“WHERE THE HELL do you get off inviting Christopher to this ceremony?”

He hadn’t even waited for the door of the office to finish slamming shut before starting to yell. Irene took this as a bad sign, and she backed up until her rear connected with the large desk that filled most of the space in the room.

“Okay, well—”

“I didn’t leave him in your hotel room so you could ask him to my wedding a couple years later!”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you trying to sabotage this somehow?” Sherlock asked.

Irene stammered to a stop, taken aback by the change in direction. “No! Of course not! I’m the one who worked to get the two of you together, in case you don’t remember.”

“That was before you were half in love with John yourself.”

“But I would never—”

“I’ve watched you do worse, Irene,” Sherlock reminded her.

Irene’s shoulders fell under the weight of his accusation and she began to pick at her fingernails, an old, anxious habit. “I’m a thief,” she admitted. “But I’m not that kind of thief. Anyway, it’s not like he would have me; he wants you.”

Sherlock eyed her for a long moment. “But if there were any chance, you would steal him,” he deduced, and she broke into a broad grin.

“Hell, yes; he’s a keeper.”

“I know.” He folded his arms and leaned against the door, a seemingly nonchalant gesture, though Irene’s keen sense of survival noted he was blocking the main exit. She tried to recall the exact placement of the windows without looking behind her. “So tell me how Christopher ended up with an invitation.”

“I ran into him in London and—”

“How is it you’re always running into him when you visit, and I live there and never see him?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

“A large one, potentially.”

Irene huffed with impatience. “Will you just let me—?”

“Go on,” he said.

“And you don’t live there. Or, at least, you haven’t lately,” she put in.

“That’s beside the point,” said Sherlock.

“If the point is you never see him, and he lives in London, and you haven’t been in London for two years . . .”

“Get on with it, Irene.”

“He’s changed, Sherl,” she said.

“He doesn’t change. He manipulates,” Sherlock told her.

“What, like you?” she asked, only to be met with a stony expression. She knew then that she’d miscalculated; that look meant it would take extra effort to get him to see her side. “Did you know he doesn’t model any more?”

“He can’t model any more after the scandal with the chamber maid finding him tied up in your hotel room.”

“He does volunteer work,” Irene said.

“Really.” Sherlock appeared unimpressed.

“Reads books to blind people in elder care facilities or something.”

“They have recordings for that,” said Sherlock.

“And they have prostitutes for sex, but it’s not the same as being with someone you love, is it?” Sherlock turned his head sharply to his right, almost as if she’d slapped him, and Irene saw the barb had struck home. “Sorry,” she said softly. “That wasn’t called for.”

He pushed away from the door and turned as if to leave, but Irene said, “Wait. Don’t you want to know the rest?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“There’s not much to it,” Irene filled in rapidly. “We started talking, I mentioned the ceremony . . .”

“I get it; it’s fine,” Sherlock said as he pulled open the door.

“He has a new boyfriend,” she went on, hating the way the pitch of her voice rose in desperation. “Duncan, I think his name is.”

“Whatever, Irene, I don’t care,” he told her as he set foot into the hallway. “Oh, and John is moving into my room.”

“But that will ruin—” Irene began, but Sherlock was already gone. “The wedding night,” she finished to herself with a sigh.

~*~

“WHAT ARE YOU doing?” John asked. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”

Sherlock had navigated a week’s worth of Mrs. Watson’s physical affection with aplomb and had seemed to gain Mr. Watson’s quiet approval, but the arrival that morning of both Harry and Mycroft had nearly broken him. Harry’s first order of business had been to walk through the house plugging in every electronic gadget she owned—of which there were several—while simultaneously listing all the changes she would make to the décor were it hers. And Mycroft in turn had said next to nothing, which was in itself reason to worry. So now Sherlock lay on the bed, shirt open, having started to dress for dinner before abruptly changing his mind.

“They’re uniting against me,” he said.

“Who?” John asked.

“My brother and your sister.”

“Oh, don’t start,” said John, stepping the rest of the way into the room and closing the door behind him. He dropped onto the bed next to Sherlock. “What, are you going to skip meals for the next two weeks?”

“I will be very, very ill and Mrs. Grossman will have to send up all my meals on a tray,” Sherlock decided.

John rolled onto his side to face him. “Then as your doctor I will be required to take charge of your care.”

Sherlock turned. “That sounds promising.”

“Mm.” John ran a finger down Sherlock’s chest. “Open your mouth and say ‘ahh.’”

But Sherlock only gave him a dubious look. “I don’t trust what you might put in it.”

“Don’t you?” John murmured, sliding his hand the rest of the way under Sherlock’s shirt and around him to draw him closer. His ‘examination’ was going rather well, John thought, until the door flew open.

“What’s taking the two of you so—? Oh,” said Mrs. Watson. “You should lock the door if you’re going to do that.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. “Christ, Mum, don’t you knock?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man. I—”

“For the love of Christ, Denise, leave them be,” Mr. Watson said, adding, “Carry on, lads,” before pulling the door closed again.

It took a minute before John could brave looking at Sherlock. When he finally did, Sherlock said conversationally, “At least we still had our clothes on.”

John bit back a giggle.

“And at least it wasn’t Mycroft,” Sherlock went on.

“Or Harry,” John offered.

“Heaven forbid. She’d want to give us pointers.”

They lay in companionable silence for some minutes before John said, “I guess we should get dressed for dinner then.”

“Your father instructed us to carry on,” Sherlock reminded him. “And he strikes me as someone who is used to having his orders followed.”

“I _would_ hate to disappoint him,” John admitted.

“Well then,” Sherlock said, pulling him close again, “why don’t you make sure whatever I’ve come down with isn’t catching?”

~*~

JOHN DUCKED INTO the office, a room that he viewed as his own more than any other simply because it was where he had conducted all the business of running Weald House whenever he’d been in residence. And where he continued to do so at Sherlock’s behest, Sherlock having a keen enough mind for it but no real interest.

Now, though, John wasn’t looking to do work so much as find a place to hide from the stream of people that seemed to be continuously moving in and out and around the house. Even without much to do himself—everyone kept telling him not to worry about this or that, to go rest and “take it easy”—all the activity only made him tired. It seemed impossible to relax. But the office, John thought, would be a good nook to hole up in for a while. If anywhere were likely to be quiet and abandoned, that would be the place.

Except it wasn’t.

Instead, John entered to find Irene sitting at the desk with her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking in a way that suggested she was crying.

John hesitated. Ever since Sherlock had confronted Irene about inviting Christopher—and John was not privy to the outcome of that conversation; all Sherlock would say was that it didn’t matter—Sherlock had been barely civil to his old friend. But then, Sherlock was putting forth all his effort to be charming to John’s family (his parents, anyway; Sherlock tended to treat Harry with the same kind of contempt he did his brother, which John tried to see as a sort of bizarre familial gesture), so it was possible that he didn’t feel the need to work so hard on Irene’s behalf. Or maybe it was impatience with the planning since the only time Irene ever approached Sherlock was when she wanted or needed to know something about the ceremony.

Still, John worried that Irene’s tears were over something Sherlock had said or done unthinkingly, or worse, utterly deliberately; he could be barbarous when irritated and quite pointed with his words. And John wasn’t sure whether he should just turn around and go or try to get to the root of the problem.

The decision was made for him when Irene looked up, saw John, and fell into a fresh spate of sobs. “The hydrangeas are too pink!” she wailed.

Stunned by this seeming non sequitur, this leap in logic from his thoughts to reality, it took John a moment to formulate a simple, “What?”

“They’re supposed to be blue! But they’re more like a pinky-purple color!”

“I don’t . . .” John began uncertainly, then asked, “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters! Sherlock wants blue!”

“Calm down,” John said in the same tone he used with hysterical patients. It worked here, too; Irene began taking in great gulps of air as she forced herself to breathe. “What am I going to do, John?” she asked, turning her red-rimmed eyes to him. “This will just be one more reason for him to hate me.”

Taking a seat across from the desk, John leaned forward and said, “He doesn’t hate you. And flowers aren’t going to make him hate you, either, unless maybe you try to get him to carry a bouquet.”

That got her to smile, albeit briefly. “He’s so angry with me.”

“About the flowers?” John asked. That didn’t seem like Sherlock.

But Irene shook her head. “I was . . . unkind. Said something I shouldn’t have. It hurt his feelings, and you know how he gets.”

“He’ll get over that, too,” John said, “though it might take a while.” Sherlock, he knew, could hold a grudge, at least until the point it became convenient to release it, and personal slights were a particularly sore spot. But he liked to think something greater in his lover would be able to put whatever had been said aside for the sake of a deep and abiding friendship. “You’re his closest friend, his best friend—”

“Used to be,” Irene inserted.

“You’ll always have known him longer. And you know him better in a lot of ways.”

“You haven’t missed much,” Irene told him ruefully. “He was way worse before he met you.”

They were both quiet, as if contemplating this fact. Then John said, “He notices everything, Irene. But no matter how perfect you make this ceremony, if you think he’s going to mention it, much less thank you for it . . .”

“I know.”

“And even if it isn’t perfect, he probably won’t say anything.”

“I know,” Irene said again. “But he’s not indifferent, John. It does matter to him. Sherl just—he can’t talk about things that matter. He doesn’t know how.”

“Which is why you haven’t been able to talk to him about whatever has come between you,” John deduced.

Irene stood up with a sigh and moved around the desk. “I’ve got to see if I can find some blue hydrangeas. We’ve still got a few days.”

John rose as well. “Is it more important that they be hydrangeas or that they be blue?”

“Both,” Irene said determinedly.

“Irene.”

She turned.

“It’ll be fine. No matter what color the flowers are.”

She smiled, though he thought it was a little sad. “You’re a good man, John.” She stopped at the door. “Don’t forget Mrs. Holmes is coming today.”

“Why do you think I’m hiding in here?” John asked.

“I’ve never met her,” Irene told him.

“Really?” John didn’t hide his surprise; he’d assumed anyone who’d known Sherlock as long as Irene would have met his mother at some point.

“I’d never even been to Weald House until the funeral,” said Irene. “So you see, I don’t really know him as well as you’d think.” Then she pulled open the door and was gone, leaving John to wonder about the differences in knowing someone a long time and knowing them thoroughly.


	12. Chapter 12

GERALDINE HOLMES SWEPT into the entry and stopped short, causing Jeremy to very nearly run her down with the not insubstantial luggage.

“Where is everyone?” Gerrie asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Ma’am,” Jeremy mumbled.

Brow furrowed, Gerrie took a tentative step to one side. “Take my things upstairs,” she directed.

“Ma’am.” Jeremy began to haul up the suitcases, only to meet John coming down.

“Jeremy!” he exclaimed at seeing the old butler struggle with what was evidently a heavy load. “Let me help you with those. She’s in the yellow room.”

“The yellow room!” Gerrie called up. “What about my old room?”

“It’s under construction,” John told her as he gathered three of the bags, leaving Jeremy with the two least heavy pieces. “Besides, the yellow room is the nicest one.”

“Under construction?” Gerrie asked, oblivious to John's pointed tone. She followed the two men as they mounted the remainder of the staircase. “But didn’t you just have it redone?”

“Irene and Mrs. Grossman have some kind of grand plan for it,” John said. He turned as he reached the top of the stairs and added, “You know, I’m surprised you don’t want   
to see your son. The one who was supposed to be dead?”

Gerrie shrugged one shoulder. “I never thought I’d see him again anyway. What’s a few more minutes? Be careful with that one, Jeremy, all my toiletries are in it. Don’t want to break a perfume bottle.”

John was scowling. “You were kind of fine with not seeing him again, weren’t you? Even when it happened.”

Gerrie’s icy blue eyes met John’s steady gaze. “It’s difficult to miss something you never really had, John. Consider yourself lucky, or unlucky, as the case may be.” And she sailed past him to the yellow room, intent on making sure Jeremy didn’t mishandle any of her property.

~*~

ONCE SETTLED TO her satisfaction, Gerrie made her way back downstairs in search of someone to greet her the way she felt she should be greeted. She found her oldest son settled in a chair in the library, reading one of the several daily papers he made it a habit to peruse.

“Well, there you are, at least,” Gerrie sighed.

Mycroft spared her a glance. “Surprised you didn’t come out earlier,” he remarked, “once you knew Sherlock was alive and well.”

“Oh, are you going to rebuke me as well?” Gerrie asked. When Mycroft’s brows rose in a silent question, she explained, “John has already taken me to task for not finding Sherlock first thing. But honestly, once you’ve come to terms with not seeing someone ever again, what difference does it make if you do?”

Mycroft’s expression remained neutral, though his eyes narrowed a little before dropping back to the paper in his hand. “You realize he’s behind you.”

“What?” Gerrie turned to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, his eyes closed, though she knew better than to believe he was asleep. “Goodness, Sherlock, I would have sat on you next. Sit up and give me some space.”

Without a word, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs to the floor, then stood and made for the door.

“What, not even a hello?” Gerrie called after him.

“You’ve hurt his feelings,” said Mycroft without looking up.

“I don’t see how; I was only being honest.” She paused. “And what are they doing to the master suite that I can’t stay there?”

Mycroft sighed, folded his paper and set it aside. “For one, Mother, you are no longer mistress of the house.”

“He never gave a damn about the house before,” she said with a sniff.

“No, but John has done well by it,” Mycroft said. “And it makes Sherlock happy to make John happy.”

“He doesn’t seem very happy,” Gerrie remarked. She eyed her son speculatively. “And what do you make of it? What are these Watsons like?”

But Mycroft rose and said, “I’ll let you decide for yourself when you meet them.”

“Well, I had hoped to meet everyone straight away. But no one seems to be around.”

“You mean we weren’t all here waiting for you,” Mycroft interpreted. “No, I’m afraid not. Irene, Mrs. Grossman and Mrs. Watson are in the throes of planning, and Mr. Watson has taken to visiting with any number of the locals in an attempt to keep out of the way.”

“Isn’t there another one?” Gerrie asked.

“The daughter. Harriet.”

“Where is she then?”

Mycroft only shrugged.

“Never say you don’t know, Mycroft,” challenged Gerrie. “You know everything.”

“In her room, most likely. Working or drinking or both. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do of my own.”

“I’m surprised you’ve taken it upon yourself to spend so much time away from the office,” Gerrie said.

Mycroft stopped at the door and turned. “He needed someone to be here for him.”

“He has John and his friend, that girl . . .”

“But he needed family, Mother. He might never say it, but he needed to know someone was here just for him.”

“This wedding is making you sentimental,” said Gerrie. “He’d laugh to hear you say such a thing.”

“I’d like to hear him laugh once in a while,” said Mycroft, and he departed, leaving his mother to whatever shallow thoughts might lap the shores of her mind.

~*~

SHERLOCK ENTERED THE kitchen with the intention of going out for a walk. The house was far too crowded now—it had been almost from the start, of course, but his mother’s presence pushed some kind of internal limit—and Sherlock felt the keen need for space. But when he saw Mrs. Grossman and Mrs. Watson huddled over yet another project for the ceremony, Sherlock nearly turned around. For where they were, Irene was sure to be nearby.

The Christopher issue continued to eat away at him. Irene was a smart girl; she should have known better than to fall for anything Christopher might say or do, especially after their last encounter. But Irene’s soft heart was also her downfall. Her idealism had attached her to Sherlock in the first place, after all, and Sherlock was well aware he was nothing but trouble for anyone who knew him.

That aside, however, Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to forgive Irene for her cutting insinuation about his extracurricular activities while separated from John. He was not proud of these things, and it was unlike Irene to be hurtful. And Sherlock did not need her to remind him how unworthy he was of John’s affection. How much more worthy she, or anyone for that matter, might be.

As he hesitated in the doorway, Mrs. Watson looked up and smiled. “No peeking now!” she said.

“I was just going for a walk,” he avowed solemnly.

“Getting nervous, are you?” Mrs. Watson asked. “Only a few more days!”

Sherlock didn’t feel like trying to explain that he didn’t get nervous, per se, though the idea of having so many people who knew him all in one place set him on edge for some reason. Not being the introspective sort, he didn’t delve into the why of this, only took it for the simple fact that it was.

Now all he said was, “I’m surprised Irene isn’t here.”

“She’s gone to sort out the flowers,” Mrs. Grossman put in. “Seems there’s been some kind of—”

“Actually,” came John’s voice from behind Sherlock, “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

It wasn’t immediately clear to Sherlock that John had meant him, and even Mrs. Grossman and Mrs. Watson were looking at John expectantly.

“You,” said John, pointing to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“What have I to do with flowers?”

“You do know a lot about them,” said John. “But I really wanted to talk to you about—” He broke off as he realized his mother and Mrs. Grossman were still staring.

“I was on my way for a walk,” Sherlock told him. “Come with me?”

“Gladly.”

“Ah, aren’t they a pair?” Mrs. Grossman sighed as John and Sherlock passed in view of the window on their way out to the trail that wound around the pond. “It’s good to finally see Mr. John happy.”

That won her a warm smile from Mrs. Watson. “You’ve been good to him, too. Better even than that one, pretending to be dead and all.”

“You don’t care for Mr. Sherlock then?” Mrs. Grossman asked tentatively, her avid curiosity and love of gossip warring with a desire not to overstep her bounds.

Mrs. Watson took a moment to consider. “If he makes John happy, I guess I have to like him. But I can’t like everything he does.”

“That’s the thing about love,” Mrs. Grossman agreed. “There’s no accounting for who you fall in with, whether they be good, bad or indifferent to you.”

“And where is Mr. Grossman then?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“Dead these fifteen years,” answered Mrs. Grossman. “And I tell you, if _he_ comes back from the grave, I’ll do nothing less than beat him back into it with a rolling pin!”

~*~

JOHN WAS SURPRISED when, instead of keeping to the path that circled the pond, Sherlock struck off toward a more distant stand of trees that hugged one side of the base of an otherwise bare hill. After having become familiar with the property two years before, John almost never went this way; there was nothing for miles out. But maybe that was the point, he thought, given Sherlock’s long stride that was just short of a loping run. John struggled to keep pace, his nearly healed injuries still ready to remind him of his limitations.

“Your mum’s arrived,” John finally said once he had enough breath to form words.

“I saw her,” said Sherlock.

“You had a nice visit?”

“I said I saw her, not that I spoke to her. Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

John had been hoping to ease into the discussion and work his way ’round to the topic at hand, but he supposed he should have known better than to try anything but direct discourse with Sherlock. So pulling together his lines of thought, he said, “I was thinking maybe you could be a bit kinder to Irene.”

“I haven’t been _mean_ to her,” Sherlock said.

“No, not exactly, but you haven’t been _nice_ either. I can probably count on one hand the number of words you’ve said to her at dinner the past few nights.”

“And she came crying to you about it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“More like I found her that way. Crying. In the office. She was upset because the hydrangeas were too pink or purple or something. That’s where she is now, you know. Out looking for blue hydrangeas to make you happy.”

“What difference should it make to me what color the fucking flowers are?” They’d come to the base of the hill, and Sherlock showed every sign of intending to hike up.

“Because she knows you like blue! And she knows you notice everything, and if something isn’t right— Can we just stop a minute and have a conversation?”

Sherlock obliged by coming to a halt and rounding, eyes bright in that peculiar way he had when he was either excited or angry.

“What did she do to upset you this much?” John asked. “Is it the Christopher thing? I know that was poor judgment on her part, but—”

“She made a comment that suggested I’d spent time in the company of prostitutes while we were separated.”

John rocked back on his heels as he tried to absorb this change of direction, and came near to falling backward down the hill. “Did you?” he managed to ask. Because now that the question had been introduced in his mind, he needed to know.

Sherlock’s expression hardened. “No.”

The release of tension as relief swept through him threatened John’s equilibrium once more. “Good,” he said faintly. “Because that wouldn’t have been . . . safe, or . . . or healthy.”

“Are we done then?” Sherlock asked, turning again and starting up the hill.

John glanced behind them; he could see glimpses of Weald House from between the trees that surrounded it, giving the house its name, and the roof and chimneys rising above. It was a good house, currently filled with people who drove them crazy the way only people who love you can, and John had a sudden, piercing urge to run back to it and to them. But then he looked back up the hill at Sherlock, still climbing, and had a momentary flash of panic as he remembered the last time he’d followed his lover up a steep slope, and the mistake he’d made in leaving Sherlock to finish that long walk alone.

And Sherlock only continued to ascend, as if to put all of them behind and beneath him, as if he might never return.

John hurried to catch up. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. That she’s sorry. She loves you a little, you know.”

Sherlock stopped again and looked around as if getting his bearings. “She loves you, John, not me.” When John only chuckled, Sherlock pinned him with a look. “She said as much to me. That if she thought there was any chance, she’d steal you like the thief she is.”

Surprise crossed John’s features, though he worked to mask it. “She’s funning you,” he said. “And anyway, there’s no chance of it, so . . . What are you looking for?” But John knew before he saw it, the stone building set in the thick stand of trees on the far side of the hill. Because John had almost never come this way these past couple years. But there had been times when he had.

A flare of anger ignited inside John. Sherlock, in all his pride . . .

“Really?” John asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “This is what you’re thinking about now?”

The look Sherlock threw him was a mixture of anger and sorrow. “I realize it can’t mean much to you—”

“I came here often enough,” John retorted. “Because I thought it was the closest I would ever get to you again in this lifetime. So don’t tell me what it does or doesn’t mean.”

And now Sherlock simply appeared confused. “What?”

“You’re here to see your own grave,” John accused.

Sherlock blinked. “I came to visit my father,” he said quietly before starting down the slope.

John closed his eyes. He’d made a mess of that one. Now the question was whether to follow or turn around. John opted for a compromise; he would hang back at a respectful distance.

The mausoleum was not ornate, though it did have a lovely garland carved along the topmost portion and two angels guarding the heavy wooden doors. The interior was also plain, though there were easily enough spaces for three dozen or more belated Holmes, the most recent nearest the door. And John knew well enough that the cleanest, newest plaque was high on the right side, the cupboard behind it hollow and empty.

Now, though, John remained outside the building and found himself not sure where to direct his gaze. He didn’t want to gawk, curious though he was. So he studied the face of the angel across from him, only to find himself unnerved by its return stare.

“You can come in, John, if you like.”

John jumped, glared at the angel for startling him, even as he realized it had been Sherlock speaking. He edged past the statue and stepped inside, let his eyes run over the names and dates around him. He hadn’t paid much attention before; there had only been one person who had mattered to him.

But of course Sherlock’s father was installed right above where Sherlock’s memorial plaque hung, the top of the column. John looked at the dates and did the math. “You were eight.”

“A lot happened that year,” said Sherlock.

A lot indeed, John reflected. The childhood photograph Sherlock’s mother had given John had been taken when Sherlock was eight. And— “The year Mycroft said you wanted to become a saint.”

“I’ll never get there now, will I?” Sherlock sighed.

“You were close to your father?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded very slightly then turned for the door; evidently whatever balm he’d been seeking had soothed him to his satisfaction. John trailed after him, waited as Sherlock latched the door.

“I will try to be kind to Irene,” Sherlock said as they made their way back over the hill, out of the trees and into the July sunshine once more. “But . . .”

John held his breath as he waited for Sherlock to finish.

“I really do want the hydrangeas to be blue.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“So did I. But I do.”

And while that meant more work for Irene, something inside John gave a tiny leap of joy because it felt good to know that, to Sherlock, something mattered. The color of hydrangeas, or his late father—Sherlock was like a canyon with a river flowing deep at his core. The surface was rock, seemingly immobile. But as the saying went, still waters . . .

John caught Sherlock’s arm, pulled him close and kissed him. He needed to find that core, dip in and feel it wash over him.

The canyon gave way; Sherlock did not resist.


	13. Chapter 13

“YOU TOLD HER what?!” John asked.

Sherlock looked distractedly around the room. “Where are your cufflinks?”

“Why would you agree to such a thing?” John demanded.

Sherlock was opening the drawers in the night table on John’s side of the bed. “Ah, here,” he said, extracting a small, black, rectangular box. “You wanted me to be nice to her.”

“That didn’t really extend to giving in to her . . . her . . .” Whether John was struggling to find the word he was looking for or simply choked with anger was not immediately clear.

“Whims? Romantic notions?” Sherlock supplied. “It’s a common tradition, John. Are your wedding clothes in the closet?” He moved for the closet door.

“Sending me to stay with strangers—”

“You know them better than I do,” Sherlock pointed out. “And I’m not exactly a favorite at Corring Hall.” He emerged from the closet with a garment bag and laid it on the bed. “What else do you need?”

“My toothbrush,” John muttered.

“Mm.” Sherlock headed for the bathroom. “You won’t be without company,” he called over the clatter of toiletries being tossed into a kit. “Your sister is going with you.”

“Harry?!”

Sherlock returned and added John’s grooming supplies to the growing pile. “Irene originally planned to go with you herself, but I reminded her how much she will be needed here tomorrow.”

The ceremony was set for late afternoon, meaning the day would be spent preparing. The tents would go up, the tables and chairs were to be set out, the cooking and baking and decorating . . .

“And I’m just supposed to spend the day hanging around the neighbor’s house with my sister?” John asked.

“Until Jeremy comes with the car, yes,” said Sherlock. He was back in the closet, digging out John’s battered weekender. “They have a much nicer library than here.”

“Well, in that case, I don’t know why I didn’t move in sooner,” John retorted.

The bag went onto the bed with the other items, and Sherlock stopped to take John by the shoulders and look him in the eyes. “It’s one night. We’ve gone longer.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t want to go now,” said John, blinking back tears. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t seem to help it. It was too much like when he and Harry used to be left at Aunt Martha’s so their parents could go away for a weekend. Aunt Martha had always been nice enough, but boring; she’d had no husband or children of her own, so there had been no toys at her house . . . And her cooking had been vile . . .

It occurred to John to wonder whether Aunt Martha was even still alive. Would he see her tomorrow?

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked, pulling John from his reverie.

“Nothing, just . . . something.”

“Nothing just something,” Sherlock repeated. “That covers pretty much everything then, doesn’t it?”

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock meant the statement or the packed overnight bag. Wordlessly, he hefted the case from its place on the bed. Sherlock picked up the garment bag and gestured for John to precede him out the bedroom door. Reluctantly, John complied.

Harry was waiting impatiently in the entry and, with more forbearance, John’s parents and Irene; even Mycroft was there, though he hung back. “I feel like I’m going on some kind of long voyage instead of just up the road for a sleepover,” John told them, trying to keep things light, though the slight tremor in his voice gave away his nerves.

Mrs. Watson swooped in for a hug, and Mr. Watson offered a hearty pat on the back. Irene gave John a squeeze as well, all too aware of Sherlock’s narrowed eyes burrowing into her. Mycroft nodded in curt acknowledgement.

“God, you’d think he’d won an award,” Harry groused. “He’s getting married, not going off to—” She came to an abrupt halt as all eyes swung toward her. “War,” she finished, adding defiantly, “Well, he’s not! This time.” She glanced uncertainly at their parents.

“You listen here, Missy,” Mr. Watson said in his low rumble. “You may be every kind of important where you work, but you don’t ever belittle your brother’s choice to serve his country. You understand?”

A trail of bright red blazed its way up Harry’s cheekbones, and Sherlock found himself thinking, _She blushes the same way John does._ It made her seem like someone he knew, as opposed to someone he’d worked hard to avoid, and Sherlock was momentarily nonplussed. But only momentarily. He looked away, and Harry mumbled something like, “I’ll be waiting in the car, Johnny,” and pushed past her parents to step outside.

“Okay, well,” said Mrs. Watson brightly. She gave John another hug. “We’ll be getting everything ready for you here tomorrow.”

John nodded, took in Irene’s barely contained giddiness, his parents’ serene expressions, Mycroft’s ever-inscrutable visage. Then he turned to Sherlock. “I guess I’ll see you at the ceremony.”

“Yes,” was all Sherlock said. John would have liked more, would have especially liked a kiss goodbye, but he knew Sherlock would never do such a thing with so many people standing there. It was a wonder he was going through with the ceremony at all.

Then Sherlock said, “I’ll walk you to the car,” and John’s heart gave a hopeful little leap.

Not that it was a long walk from the entry to the turnaround in front of the portico, which is where Jeremy waited beside the car, Harry already ensconced in the back seat. But after they’d put John’s things in the boot, standing now out of sight of Harry’s prying eyes, and with Jeremy pointedly looking the opposite direction, John got the kiss he wanted.

“Something to tide you over,” Sherlock told him.

“I’ll see if I can make it last all night,” said John.

“Save a little for tomorrow, too.”

John nodded and Sherlock moved around the car to open his door for him, startling Jeremy, whose job it was. But Sherlock made a waylaying gesture, and Jeremy opened his own door and slid into the driver’s seat even as John slipped in beside his sister. “Get a good snog in?” she asked him.

Sherlock closed the door before he could hear John’s answer.

~*~

“YOU’RE BUTTONED WRONG.”

After a sleepless night at Corring Hall, and a day spent making circles in their library while trying to keep up some semblance of polite chit-chat until it was time to get dressed and return to Weald House, John now stood in the drawing room, charged with nervous energy derived from the knowledge that Sherlock was somewhere nearby, and that it was almost time to see him. Harry had abandoned John the minute they’d stepped through the door (a night and day of his company being as much as she was willing to bear), and John had sent his parents away because they’d only made him more nervous. But now here was Irene, smiling and strangely calm, as if she had nothing to prove by having this whole affair go off smoothly.

John looked down at his shirt, but it was as if he couldn’t see straight or clearly. Taking pity on him, Irene reached out and began to fix his buttons. “I wish you’d been my sister,” he said, really just thinking aloud, but a corner of Irene’s mouth quivered slightly, though the smile remained fixed.

“Hold on,” she said, “let me go get your boutonniere.” She turned and swiftly departed.

John had thought being alone would be better than having other people bothering him, but now that he was alone, he wished he weren’t. He blinked at the room around him, so white and familiar, though it wasn’t one he ever spent any amount of time in. It was a formal room, a staging area, the first stop on the tour. Being there alone made John feel impermanent and forgotten.

But then Irene returned. “What is it?” John asked her as she began to affix the collection of small blue flowers to his buttonhole.

“Tweedia. There, that should stay.” She took a step back and surveyed him. “Ready?”

Nerves threatened. “Now?”

Irene nodded. “Everyone’s seated. They’re waiting on you.”

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked, hating the note of panic he heard in his tone.

“I meant ‘you’ collectively, as in the two of you,” Irene told him gently. “He’s in the kitchen. And just as nervous, but better at hiding it,” she added with a wink.

John blinked at her. Suddenly he felt bad that she’d gone to so much trouble when it seemed unlikely that he would remember much of it. Already things were blurring inside his head.

“I’m going to have Mycroft send Sherlock out, and then it’ll be your turn.” Irene spoke slowly, as if to be sure John understood.

There was to be no processional in the traditional sense. Sherlock would go out with Mycroft to stand by him, and John would go out with Harry, God help him. A new fear struck. “She’s not drunk, is she?” he asked.

Irene shook her head. “She hasn’t had anything to drink since you came over from Corring. Mycroft and Mrs. Grossman made sure of that.”

“And she didn’t dare try it in front of the Baskervilles,” said John, relaxing slightly. Harry wasn’t shy about her drinking, would do so abundantly in social situations if and when she could get away with it, but she was also keenly aware of others’ perceptions of her. She wouldn’t have risked a bad impression by having asked for a drink first thing in the morning, and of course the Baskervilles had not offered. Nor had Harry been alone with an unlocked liquor cabinet, thank goodness.

Now Harry stuck her head in the door and said, “Well?”

Irene gave John’s hand a squeeze. “That’s my cue to go take my seat,” she said and hurried off.

“You planning to keep him waiting?” Harry asked.

“No,” John answered with a scowl.

“Come on, then,” his sister prodded. “Every second must feel like an eternity out there.” When John continued to hesitate, Harry asked, “You having second thoughts, Johnny?”

“No,” he said again.

“Stage fright?” she asked.

John sighed. Anything would be better than enduring Harry’s incessant questions. “Let’s get on with it,” he grumbled, pushing past her.

“That’s more like,” said Harry as she followed in his wake.

~*~

LATER, ONLY A handful of moments would stand clear in John’s mind, one of them being how agitated Sherlock seemed when John first set eyes on him standing on the small dais in front of the seated guests. John knew that Sherlock would have been pacing if he hadn’t been so very aware of all the eyes, that he might have done so anyway if Mycroft weren’t silently willing him to remain in place. But once Sherlock saw John he grew calm, and John understood. Sherlock was overstimulated, needed something to focus on, and John was that something.

John wanted always to be that something. This was what he thought as he stepped onto the dais, at least until Harry distracted him by snarling an oath under her breath after she accidentally snagged her heel in the hem of her dress. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, and he signaled the Register to begin.

Mycroft had put as much work into the day as Irene, albeit in less obvious fashion. He’d cleared Weald House as a site for the registration and arranged for the Register to perform the ceremony there. Sherlock would have been just as happy—or happier—in some civic building, but John had been set on having it at the house, and seeing as no one else on the planet was likely to ever put up with his brother, Mycroft felt the good doctor deserved at least that much consideration.

As the Register began speaking, a pang of alarm darted through John. Did Harry have the ring? He started to look over his shoulder, wanting to ask her, but caught Sherlock’s worried frown. John stared back helplessly.

Sherlock stepped toward him. Tilted his head. Whispered five simple words into John’s ear.

The Register had stopped talking. John looked up at Sherlock and said, “Maybe we should just skip to the end.”

Sherlock started to smile, and it was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. But before John could benefit from the full warmth of it, it faded and Sherlock turned toward the guests as a commotion sounded.

Someone was standing at the end of the aisle that ran between the chairs.

“Eoin?” John asked.

Already Mycroft’s men were moving in, but Lestrade got there first, and it was only after the inspector had Eoin facedown on the grass that John realized there had been a gun.

He looked to Sherlock, who was still frowning as Lestrade accepted handcuffs from one of Mycroft’s security people. But John’s eyes were drawn to the bright red flower whose petals were slowly opening across Sherlock’s chest.

_He doesn’t know_ , John thought absurdly. _Nobody tell him. He doesn’t know._

But whether it was the screaming—which John was only just beginning to hear over the pounding of his own heart—or John’s expression, Sherlock seemed to notice something was wrong. He looked down at himself and made a strange sort of mewling noise as he realized he’d been shot.

From where he stood behind his brother’s left shoulder, Mycroft was demanding to know how Eoin had gotten past security, the answer seeming to be, “He had an invitation, sir!” Meanwhile, Eoin was yelling loudly, “You were happier, John! You were happier when he was dead!” until Inspector Lestrade told him to shut up and clocked him for good measure.

John was vaguely aware of all this, though his gaze stayed locked on Sherlock. He knew he should be doing something but felt weirdly paralyzed. Even Sherlock only continued to stand there, making that noise and looking down at his rapidly reddening shirt. Then he took a step backward, as if to get away from it, only to be stymied when the shirt—and the wound—moved with him.

Mycroft put a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and abstractly John realized that, because he was behind his brother, Mycroft could not see what had happened, what _was_ happening; Sherlock wobbled and looked to John, while Mycroft’s already troubled expression grew darker.

And as Sherlock began to fall, John broke free of his stasis. He took Sherlock’s right arm and helped Mycroft ease Sherlock down.

There came a grinding kind of sound that it took John a minute to recognize as a low sort of moaning. Another minute passed before he understood it was coming from him. He swallowed hard against it to make it stop.

“Sherlock,” John said, and the eyes that had been staring at the sky shifted toward him, though John couldn’t tell whether they were seeing clearly. “Stay with me. Understand? Those won’t be the last words you ever say to me.”

Sherlock started to smile. Couldn’t. “It hurts, John.”

“Those won’t be the last words, either,” John insisted.

Sherlock’s eyes were growing glassy, and John could see he was having difficulty pulling in breath. Had the bullet nicked a lung? “It was such a . . . nice day . . . no rain . . .”

“Yes,” John said, half sobbing as he tried to keep Sherlock focused. “Just like we wanted. You always get what you want.”

With a thud, John’s medical bag landed next to where he knelt, and beside that, Irene. “You have to help him, John.”

John tore his eyes from Sherlock just long enough to look at her and shake his head.

“Even if we tossed him in the back of a car right now, the nearest hospital is at least twenty minutes from here at top speed,” Irene said in low, rapid tones. “We’ve called for an ambulance, but he can’t wait that long.”

John was suddenly extremely aware of both Irene’s and Mycroft’s intense gazes. He looked again at Sherlock, who continued to stare up and up and up at the vacant blue sky.

Something inside John jolted like a car thrown abruptly into high gear. He pushed back Sherlock’s suit coat and rapidly began opening the ruined shirt. “Hand me a rag, something to—” he began, but Irene was already pushing an antibacterial wipe into his hand.

John cleaned as much as he needed to get a look at the location of the actual wound. Not the heart, thank whatever God was in heaven, but nearly. So close, so very close . . . The ribs were almost certainly broken, shattered even, and there was a real chance the left lung had been pierced. When had Eoin become such a good shot? Had he always been, or had he practiced for this?

John shoved the questions from his mind. The blood continued to flow from Sherlock’s chest, and air was traveling in and out of the wound with each increasingly labored breath. John couldn’t perform surgery, not out there, not without the proper tools, but he could try to stop the bleeding and give Sherlock ( _please, God, let him live_ ) enough of a bridge to get him from then to when the medics arrived.

“I need a hemostat,” he said half to himself.

Irene began digging through the bag. “A what?”

“The Celox. I need the Celox.”

Irene found the packets and began to hand them over.

“Open them,” John directed. His hands were too slick with blood to waste effort fumbling with the tear notches.

Irene did as instructed, and as she handed John the open packs, he said, “Get a bandage ready.”

The Celox worked here as it had on the battlefield, forming a sort of false scab and causing the blood in the wound to clot. It wouldn’t last forever, no, and though John did his best to get the agent as far into the injury as he could, he knew there would likely still be bleeding somewhere beneath. But this would buy them precious time.

Irene handed John the bandage, which he used to cover the hole, affixing it on three sides so that one side remained open to maintain the air pressure in Sherlock’s chest.

Though Sherlock’s eyes were still open, he had not so much as made a sound, and John paused now to look into his eyes. He received no acknowledgement and for a moment worried that it had all been in vain. But no, Sherlock was breathing, he had a pulse (weak and rapid though it was), he was sweating and shivering . . . Sherlock was in shock.

“Someone bring a blanket,” said John. They were now surrounded by immediate family and friends—just as they’d meant to be on their special day, John thought, although things had not exactly gone according to plan.

And they still weren’t technically married. Or registered. What-have-you.

Not wanting to move Sherlock if he could avoid it, John carefully slipped a hand under Sherlock’s back to check for an exit wound. There was none. A small relief.

A blanket appeared. John gently laid it over Sherlock, and for a brief moment John thought the eyes lit with comprehension before going void once more.

And now all they could do was wait.


	14. Chapter 14

“JOHN. THE AMBULANCE is here.” It was said in a patient and persistent tone, and had probably been said many times over. But it wasn’t until the movement around Sherlock shifted and increased that John emerged from the blank space he seemed to be occupying. He jerked, ready to go on the defensive, then realized help had finally arrived.

Still, when the medics attempted to push John aside, something base and animal in him threatened to retaliate, and Mycroft and Mr. Watson were required to intervene before John could react.

“He’s fine, John, he’ll be fine thanks to you,” said Mr. Watson.

“He’s cold,” was all John could think of to say. He watched the emergency workers check Sherlock’s vital signs and examine the wound. They’d removed the blanket. Sherlock would catch a chill.

One of the medics looked over his shoulder at the gathering, thinned out now as Irene had sent most gawpers on their way. “Whoever did this probably saved his life,” the medic said, looking directly at John’s telltale hands before turning back to his work. He and a second emergency worker carefully lifted Sherlock onto a stretcher then draped the blanket back over him.

“I have to go,” said John. “He needs me; I have to go.”

But Mycroft and Mr. Watson continued to hold him back. “Patrick will go with him,” Mycroft said. “You get cleaned up and we’ll follow in a bit.”

“Patrick? Who the hell is Patrick? He needs me.” John felt as close to frantic as he could ever remember being.

“John. Son,” Mr. Watson said, low and quiet, “He doesn’t know the difference right now. Save your strength for when it’ll be worth something.”

John looked at his father uncomprehendingly. “If it were Mum, would you stop to clean yourself up?”

“Yes, I would,” Mr. Watson answered, reasonable as always.

“Then you must not love her as much as I love him,” John said.

Normally this would have won him a rebuke, but given the circumstances, Mr. Watson let it pass.

“The sooner you pull yourself together, the sooner we can go,” said Mycroft.

Seeing there was no way around it short of making a break for the garages—and John at least had the presence of mind to know he was not fit to drive—John allowed the two men to lead him back to the house, where Mrs. Watson, Gerrie and Harry waited in the library for news.

“Is he all right?” Gerrie asked.

“What do you care?” John retorted. “You thought he was dead up until a few months ago anyway; what difference would it make to you now? Isn’t that how your logic works?”

“John!” Mrs. Watson gasped.

“He’s overset,” said Mr. Watson. “Come, John, let’s get you upstairs and changed.”

“Who’s Patrick?” John was heard to ask again as his father led him from the room.

The three women turned their expectant gazes on Mycroft, who nodded. “I think John saved him. We’ll see what they say when we get to the hospital.”

“I’m going, too,” Harry announced. When everyone looked at her as if she’d gone off her rocker, she added defensively, “For Johnny. And I can’t stand sitting around here waiting.”

“Where’s Irene?” Mycroft asked. “She’ll want to come along, too, I’m sure.”

Irene and Mrs. Grossman were found in the kitchen, picking up the pieces of the thwarted reception; tacitly Mrs. Watson stepped in to take over Irene’s duties so Irene would be free to go to the hospital. Gerrie took up station in one of the chairs and fiddled absently with the trimmings from one of the hydrangeas—blue, Irene’s determination having paid off.

“You don’t want to come, Mother?” Mycroft asked.

“Dear Lord, no. I hate hospitals,” Gerrie said. “Just . . . Give him my love when he wakes up.”

Mycroft gave a nod that suggested he’d expected nothing more nor less of his mother, then turned toward the old servants’ door, which had a corridor that led out to the garages. “I’ll bring a car around.”

“Let Jeremy do it,” Gerrie told him.

“I _can_ drive, Mother,” Mycroft said, “when I need to.” He disappeared into what had once been the servants’ wing.

Then John and Mr. Watson returned, John blinking at everything around him as if he’d never seen any of it before, and the group went outside to meet Mycroft in the Range Rover. The trip was an eerily quiet one and seemed to take far longer than it should, despite Mycroft’s aggressive driving. In the end it took no longer than half an hour, but time had become elastic; John had the sense it was bending strangely around him, and he found it impossible to believe that not more than two hours before, he and Sherlock had been standing before all their friends and kin, well and whole and happy.

John, Mycroft, Mr. Watson, Harry and Irene—it was this quiet collective that ambled into the emergency room, Mycroft at the lead. But instead of going directly to the desk, Mycroft zeroed in on a man sitting in a corner of the mostly vacant waiting area. He stepped over to speak with him.

“Patrick, I presume,” said Harry.

Mycroft returned a few minutes later, the stranger trailing behind. “This is Patrick,” he said without preamble.

“He works for you,” John said, his voice coming out strangely flat and toneless.

Mycroft nodded. “And he worked with Sherlock overseas these past couple years.”

John felt as if ice water had been thrown over him. His eyes flew to meet Mycroft’s, but Sherlock’s brother was as indecipherable as ever. Then John turned his gaze on Patrick, who met the stare steadily, though like Mycroft his face gave nothing away.

“He’s in surgery,” Patrick told them. “The doctors will come out to let us know.”

“That’s it?” Harry asked.

Patrick shrugged.

“Do we know how long it might take?” asked Irene.

Patrick shook his head.

There was uncomfortable silence. Then John said abruptly, “You’re the one he was sleeping with.”

Everyone stared, first at John, then at Patrick.

Patrick nodded.

“Jesus, Irene, did you invite every ex-boyfriend and -lover? Way to throw a party,” said Harry.

“Keep out of it, Harry,” Mr. Watson said quietly.

“I don’t remember you being on the guest list,” Irene told Patrick.

But it was Mycroft who answered with a flat, “He wasn’t.”

Meanwhile, Patrick watched John narrowly; his personal rule was to never be the first to swing and to always be the last, if it came to that. But John just stood there, staring, until Patrick—usually unflappable, given his line of work—started to feel a tad itchy. So in an attempt to break the stalemate, Patrick said, “Look, it was never me he was going to marry, mate.”

John kept staring.

“I was only his contact,” Patrick explained. “You know, meet somewhere, pick up this, drop off that.” When John still didn’t respond, Patrick went on, “There was nothing to it. Just a bit of fun.”

That was when John hit him. And caught off guard, Patrick never had the opportunity to move out of the way, much less strike back. “Christ!” he said from where he landed on the scuffed and dirty floor of the waiting area. “I was trying to make you feel better!”

“I do now,” said John, though his voice seemed far away to his own ears.

Patrick put a hand to the left side of his face, which was rapidly showing the signs of discoloration. “I think you broke my cheekbone.”

“He’s small but quick,” Harry said with all the authority of someone who had spent a lifetime antagonizing her brother and therefore knew his methods.

“John, please don’t damage the help,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Good agents aren’t in infinite supply.”

“You call that good?” Harry asked.

“Harry,” Mr. Watson warned again.

John reached out to offer Patrick a hand. “You don’t ever touch him again.”

Patrick grinned as he accepted and pulled to standing. “No worries, mate. He’s yours. Always has been.”

A doctor emerged through the heavy wooden doors that led back to the emergency operating rooms. She made a beeline for Patrick, who deftly pushed John a tiny bit forward. The doctor hesitated. “Are you all here for Mr. Holmes?”

“Him more than anyone,” Patrick volunteered, giving John another poke and earning a glare.

The doctor appeared something between uncertain and annoyed as she looked to John for confirmation. He gave a short nod and she relaxed. “If you’ll come with me,” she said.

John glanced back at the collection of grave and concerned faces behind them as he followed the doctor back through the doors.

“He’s lucky someone there knew what he was doing,” the doctor said.

“That would be me,” John mumbled.

She gave John an appraising look. “You a doctor?” When John nodded, she said, “Then he’s lucky in more ways than one. I’m Dr. Matthews, by the way. He’s up here . . .” She stopped in front of a lift and hit the button.

“Out of surgery then,” John deduced. “Awake?”

“Not yet. But I thought you’d want to see him anyway. You’re his next of kin?”

“Almost.”

Dr. Matthews’ lips twisted with something that might have been amusement as they stepped into the lift. “Explains his suit. Shit way to start a partnership, though, if you’ll forgive my being blunt.”

“Just making it official, really,” said John. “We started a long time ago. His lung?”

“Is fine,” she supplied. “His ribs absorbed the worst of the impact, but it clearly wasn’t a close-range shot.”

John shook his head and followed her out of the lift as the doors opened.

“Did they get him? Whoever did it?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Matthews stopped in front of a door. “Well, I hope things get better for the two of you from here on out.”

“Thanks,” said John, and again, “thank you,” partly because his mum had always told him “thanks” was sloppy, and partly because once didn’t seem quite enough when it came to saving Sherlock’s life, never mind the well wishes besides.

“The fentanyl should wear off before long,” said Dr. Matthews. “You can stay until eight; that’s when visiting ends. We ask that you only come up one or two at a time . . .”

John nodded his understanding, and Dr. Matthews started to turn away but paused. “He has quite a collection of scars . . .”

“He’s in a hard line of work,” John told her.

Her brows rose. “One in which it’s useful to have a doctor around?”

“Something like that,” said John, and when it became clear he wasn’t going to volunteer any additional information, Dr. Matthews bid him goodnight and departed.

John waited until she rounded a corner before opening the door to Sherlock’s room.

Modern hospital beds had been designed to accommodate people much larger than Sherlock Holmes, and John found himself thinking three of his lover could easily fit, maybe even four if they lay on their sides, the upshot being that Sherlock appeared strangely small in the sea of hospital white that surrounded him.

And that was a terrible sight.

John briefly considered climbing in next to Sherlock, going so far as to kick off his shoes before good sense took hold. _There’s a way to get yourself tossed out_ , he thought. But he was so tired—after a sleepless night and a day that had been nerve-wracking in ways both expected and unforeseen—it almost didn’t seem fair that Sherlock was getting to rest and John wasn’t. Even if it had required taking a bullet to earn a nap.

So with a furtive glance over his shoulder at the door, John lowered the bed rail and gingerly lay down on his side of the bed (and it _was_ his; it was the side he always slept on, and he felt lucky that Sherlock’s injuries and IV lines were on the opposite side), taking care not to jostle anything. He lay on his back there, staring at the ceiling, but it felt unnatural and he couldn’t hope to fall asleep like that. He shouldn’t fall asleep, he knew, else the risk of being caught would be exponentially higher.

John turned his head toward Sherlock, who in turn had his head turned slightly away. John could still smell the soap and shampoo and aftershave, mixed now with the antiseptic smell of the hospital gown and sheets—but for a moment John was able to clearly picture all the care Sherlock would have put into his grooming routine that day. Oh, Sherlock could be fastidious even on an average day, but that day he would have checked and re-checked, adjusted and re-adjusted until someone (presumably Mycroft) dragged him away from the mirror. And while it would be easy to label Sherlock as vain—and in many ways he was, though not in looks, John had learned—no, in truth when it came to appearance Sherlock was simply insecure. He was the scrawny, gangly kid who’d grown too tall too quickly and was no good at sports. But he more than made up for it with his brilliant mind. (And that was where the vanity came in.)

Sherlock was going to hate waking up in a hospital, and what was worse, in a hospital gown. Ah, God, they couldn’t keep on like this. A collection of scars indeed.

“This can’t work,” John sighed to himself.

“What can’t work?” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head.

“We can’t keep landing in hospitals,” said John. “This was fun, you know, when we started. And I’m still amazed by you, what you can do . . . But I can’t spend all my time worrying, not if, but when you’ll next get hurt, or worse.”

“So don’t worry about it,” said Sherlock.

John was surprised to feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t help it.”

“This is why I need you,” Sherlock told him. “You have more sense than I do.”

John considered this. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I thought the nicest thing I ever said to you was right before your jealous ex-boyfriend shot me.”

“Remind me,” said John. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he added, “Or was that all I get?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “I should have known once I said it you’d demand to hear it all the time.”

“I can’t be the first person you’ve ever said it to.”

“First and only,” Sherlock informed him.

“What about your parents? Your brother? Old boyfriends?”

“No.”

John studied Sherlock’s face. “You’re serious,” he concluded.

“My strength does not lie in my emotions, John.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think there are some strong feelings in there somewhere.”

They fell quiet then, and doubt began to gnaw at John once more. He was smart enough to know, when he looked at it straight on (which he was reluctant to do), that Sherlock filled an almost addictive need in him for excitement and adrenaline; that this was balanced by John’s desire to feel useful, which Sherlock also filled; and that the possibility of going back to his mundane life of the previous two years was a bleak consideration. And he knew that he satisfied Sherlock’s need for someone to admire him, to pet his ego and run his everyday errands. But John couldn’t help worrying that these were also all the wrong reasons to form an enduring relationship with someone. He respected Sherlock, and yes, loved him, but . . . Life with him was impossible and life without him was unbearable.

The tears threatened again.

“It’s been a difficult day,” Sherlock said, and John was touched because he understood this was Sherlock’s attempt to be sympathetic.

“We should be sipping champagne in our master suite,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock turning a little onto his side, which alarmed John.

“Don’t,” John told him. “Don’t, you’ll hurt—”

Sherlock ignored him, of course, and if moving was uncomfortable at all, he hid it. “We should be home. In London. Eating Chinese take away and ignoring calls and e-mails from our siblings. You’d be on the sofa watching something awful, and I’d be at my computer in search of something interesting to work on. And then you’d get bored and go to bed, and I’d give up and go take a shower.”

John waited, but Sherlock didn’t say anything more. “And?” John prompted.

“And nothing. I’d probably go to bed too.”

“That’s a terrible story,” John told him. “And anyway, I always shower before bed.”

“Hm,” said Sherlock. “Okay, so you shower, and then what?”

“I go to bed still damp because those damn towels don’t dry very well.”

“They’re nice towels,” Sherlock protested.

“Maybe, but they’re too soft; they don’t dry.”

They stared at one another for several seconds before Sherlock asked, “Is that the end?”

“Do you want it to be?” John asked.

“It’s a little weak.”

John swallowed. “So . . . I go to bed still damp, and my clothes stick to me, and it’s just as bad as going to bed sweaty.”

“But you smell better,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Oh? And what do I smell like?”

Sherlock pushed a little closer to him on the bed. “Like fresh cut grass,” he murmured. “Like clean air on a winter’s night.”

John gave a tiny sigh.

“Let’s go home, John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“We will,” John promised him, “as soon as they let you out of here.”

“Let’s go now.”

John’s heart sped up. “You’ve just had surgery for a gunshot wound, remember?”

“I know a very good doctor,” Sherlock said.

“And how would we get out of here?” John asked. “You would need clothes, we’d need a car . . .”

“I also know someone who can help us with that,” said Sherlock. “She can nick our rings, too.”

“We need witnesses for the registration.”

“Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

John wavered; it was a tempting proposal, though not an entirely sound one.

And then Sherlock said those five words, the ones from the wedding, and that decided it:

“I love you, John Watson.”

John kissed him as hard as he dared given Sherlock’s condition, then said, “I’ll go get Irene.”


	15. Chapter 15

JOHN TRIED TO think quickly and clearly as he headed back down to the waiting area. He wanted more than anything to be able to take Sherlock back to London, but that desire was at full and open war with his better sense. Because, while Sherlock had made it sound so simple and easy, the minute John had stepped out of his hospital room, it had been as if a spell had broken.

This was madness. Or at the very least highly ill advised.

For one thing, they could get arrested for leaving a hospital without being properly discharged.

Worse than that, the moment Mycroft laid eyes on John, the older Holmes would see exactly what they were up to. And then they really would be in trouble.

John began slowing his steps, uncertain now what to do. He supposed he should bring Irene up to see Sherlock and let him—

John passed a wheeled basket piled with hospital laundry and paused. He glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. Eyed the basket. Checked his watch. Visiting hours would end soon, but if he were there as a doctor . . .

After one more check to be sure he was alone, John snatched up a lab coat and shrugged it on. Hesitated. Now he _really_ couldn’t afford to have Mycroft—or any of the others—see him. He’d have to text Irene instead. He leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone.

_Come up to 252._

The wait for her reply seemed interminable.

_All of us?_

_No. Just you._

More waiting. A nurse rounded the corner. For an agonizing moment John thought she’d surely say something about him being new. But she only smiled and nodded as she passed. “Doctor.”

He smiled and nodded in return, then resumed scowling at his phone.

_Not sure I can lose Mycroft._

_Only 2 visitors at a time. I’m here & S wants to see you._

_On my way._

John sighed with relief as he pocketed the phone and started back the way he’d come.

“What are you wearing, and where’s Irene?” Sherlock asked when John returned.

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that being in hospitals made Sherlock peevish, and that he shouldn’t take it personally. “I was hoping this would keep them from kicking me out in the next half hour.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, a cunning disguise. Irene?”

“She’s coming.”

“Also in disguise?”

“You know, I’m starting to think maybe you should stay here after all,” said John.

Sherlock appeared to deflate a little then. “I’m sorry, John; I’m just eager to be gone.”

“I know.” John moved to sit on the edge of the bed, though this time he resisted the urge to lie down. Might look strange if a nurse should happen to check in. In fact, when the door opened, John was prepared to jump free of the bed but relaxed when he recognized the red hair.

Irene spotted John and frowned. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh, for—” John began, biting back the words that sprang to his lips.

“Irene,” Sherlock said without preamble, “we need you to get my clothes, our rings and a car.”

“What?” Irene asked, stepping closer so that she could see around John. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll feel much better when we’re out of here. Can you do it?”

“I can . . . Wait,” said Irene, “are you talking about leaving?” She looked at John, who returned her gaze with a sort of grim determination, then at Sherlock, whose own expression was the picture of childish mutiny. “You can’t . . .” she said, but unable to find the words to voice her concern, she merely said again, “You can’t.”

“I’m not staying,” said Sherlock.

“Mycroft won’t—”

“If you do it right, we’ll be back in London before Mycroft knows anything, and he’ll be too busy to do anything about it,” Sherlock informed her. “You know he hates it when I end up in the papers. He’s already got his hands full keeping news of the shooting under wraps, and he certainly isn’t going to let my escape from the hospital mar the family name.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to take advantage of him!” said Irene.

“Does this mean you’re not going to help us?” Sherlock asked.

Irene’s mouth fell open, and while she tried to find her voice and give an answer, John asked Sherlock quietly, “Is Patrick any good with computers?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s face, which was drawn down in seemingly sorrowful lines. John always did wear his feelings openly, something that alternately fascinated and irritated Sherlock. But now there was another reaction, something lion-like that made Sherlock feel the need to guard and protect John. Never mind that John obviously knew.

“I should have told you,” Sherlock said. “I forgot that just because it didn’t mean anything to me didn’t necessarily mean it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

John only looked at him. After a minute he asked again, “Is he?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed; he was unsure why his words had gone without acknowledgement. But he discarded his pique in the face of more immediate needs. “Yes. Why?”

“Can he get into the hospital computers and forge a discharge for you?” John asked.

“You’re really going to do this?” Irene asked them.

“Are you in or out?” Sherlock asked her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “In, I guess. But God, Sherl, what if you have a relapse or something?”

“That’s what my live-in doctor is for,” said Sherlock, and John offered her a weak smile.

Irene put John on the spot. “You think this is a good idea?”

“No,” John admitted. “But I don’t want to spend any more time apart than we already have. And I think Sherlock will do what he wants anyway, so we might as well help him.”

The door opened once more and a nurse stuck her head in. “Visiting hours are—Oh, I’m sorry, doctor,” she said. “I’ll let you finish up in here.” The door clicked shut.

John threw Sherlock a triumphant look.

“Give me your phone,” was all Sherlock said. “I’ll text Patrick.”

Patrick arrived so promptly, that John half suspected he’d been lurking outside in the corridor.

“I think this is my cue to leave,” said Irene. “Noah’s ark and all.” But before departing, she stopped to give Sherlock a swift peck on the cheek. “I’ll be back to check on you soon,” she said meaningfully.

Patrick watched as the door swung shut behind her then turned to Sherlock. “So! What can I do for you that your doctor here can’t? Just a joke!” He added when he saw John’s expression. “I’d like to keep my other cheek in one piece.”

“John did that?” Sherlock asked, spying the vibrant bruise.

“Got a wicked left hook,” said Patrick with some admiration. “Would make a great asset to the field.”

John turned away toward the opposite wall in a pointed show of ignoring the attempt at flattery.

“I need you to get into the hospital computer and fabricate a discharge order,” said Sherlock.

Patrick shrugged negligently. “All right. Easy enough. I’d ask why you don’t just have Mycroft get them to release you, but . . .”

“He never would,” Sherlock said.

“He _is_ a worrier at heart,” Patrick agreed. “It’s what makes him good at his job. And at being a big brother.” Sherlock merely sniffed in derision, and Patrick laughed. “I take it I shouldn’t let the boss know. Anything else? Or does Irene have it covered?”

“She should be able to take care of the rest,” said Sherlock.

“Well . . .” said Patrick with another glance at John. His lips twisted in amusement. “I won’t kiss you goodbye . . .”

John’s head whipped around.

“Give me, say, twenty minutes?” Patrick went on as he backed toward the door, watching John the way one would watch a dog when unsure of the length of its chain.

“We won’t be able to do anything until Irene brings my clothes anyway,” Sherlock said.

Patrick found the doorknob. “Right. See you out and about in a bit then.”

John watched with avid dislike as Patrick exited the room. “Must have been his sense of humor that drew you.”

“Mm,” was all Sherlock said in reply, uncertain how much conversation was to be expected on the subject. It was clear there had already been some in his absence, given John had done damage to Patrick’s face.

John rose from the bed. “I should go check on Harry and my dad.”

“Better leave the coat,” Sherlock advised.

John shrugged off the pilfered article of clothing and went to the closet in the corner of the room, where he slipped it under a stack of blankets and spare gowns. Then he made for the door.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John paused.

“ _You_ could kiss me goodbye,” Sherlock suggested.

John dutifully returned to Sherlock’s bedside, though he didn’t appear entirely enthusiastic.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock deduced after what he could only count as a lackluster osculation.

“Brilliant,” John replied as he drew himself back to standing, and although his tone was mild his eyes flashed with something Sherlock was reluctant to label.

“You’ll be happier once we’re home.”

“I hope to be,” said John, already headed to the door once more. He didn’t look back.

~*~

 

MYCROFT, MR. WATSON and Harry were seated in a neat row, Mycroft and Harry each involved with their mobile phones while Mr. Watson watched people come and go through the emergency entrance. John approached him first, but even before he had the opportunity to say anything, Mr. Watson rose and asked, “What’s the matter, John?”

“Nothing,” John replied, but he could tell by the pitch of his voice (too high) that it wasn’t convincing. “Nothing,” he said again, more evenly. “Sherlock is fine, I just . . .”

Mycroft finished whatever he was doing and stood as well, giving John a look that made him feel as if he’d just been read as clearly as a map. But the only thing Mycroft said was, “I should go up and see him.”

“Visiting hours are over,” said John.

Mycroft’s gaze never wavered. “And where are Irene and Patrick?”

“I don’t know,” John answered truthfully. “They left before I did.” He didn’t try to extend the lie by saying he thought they’d be with the others; time with Sherlock had made John aware of his limits, one of which was an inability to credibly embroider any falsehood. The less he said was generally better.

And now Mycroft turned to look at the doors John had pushed through minutes earlier. “I think I’ll go up just the same.”

“I’ll show you,” John offered, but Mycroft’s eyes cut back at him in a way that John swore he could feel physically, like the edge of a piece of paper slicing across his chest.

“I know where he is,” said Mycroft before walking away.

John and Mr. Watson watched him go. Then Mr. Watson asked, “So, John, do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Not really,” said John.

“Well, we’re stuck here in the meantime,” said Mr. Watson, resuming his seat and patting the one next to him that Mycroft had vacated. After John sat down, his father asked, “He’s really all right then?”

John nodded. “It could have been much, much worse.”

“Best not to think about that,” said Mr. Watson.

“Right,” John sighed.

Harry lifted her head from whatever she’d been doing on her phone. “What’s he mooning about now?”

“Shut up, Harry,” said John, and for once his father didn’t reprimand him.

She shrugged and went back to her work. Or online shopping. John figured one was as likely as the other.

Patrick sailed through the doors, and John wondered fleetingly if he’d passed Mycroft on the way, before having less charitable thoughts when Patrick took the seat on his other side and whispered in John’s ear, “I’ve released him into your custody.”

John turned more fully to get a good look. The hair was dark and spiky in what John supposed was a fashionable way, and the suit was obviously expensive. But it was the twinkling brown eyes and too-white grin that made John want to smack him.

Patrick drew back slightly and lifted his eyebrows, still smiling. “If you want to talk about it . . .”

“I don’t.”

But Patrick was looking down at his hands. “It didn’t happen more than . . .” He held his palms up in his lap as if attempting to count.

“You make it very difficult for me not to want to hurt you, you realize,” John told him.

“You had one,” Patrick pointed out.

“I also had reason to believe Sherlock was dead.”

“Ah. You’d rather think of him as alone and unhappy without you.”

John didn’t dignify this with an answer, mostly because he couldn’t think of one.

“He came running home the minute he heard you were with someone,” Patrick went on. “That must count for something.”

“But he hadn’t planned on my seeing him, either,” said John. “He would have slipped in and out without me ever knowing.”

“Well, I’m no psychologist, but . . . In my experience, there’s something to be said for the theory that some people want to get caught.”

John was still processing this when Irene came through the outdoor entrance. She made a beeline for John, but Harry looked up and spoke first. “Where’d you get off to?”

“Needed some air,” said Irene.

John stood, expecting to speak to her, but Irene walked past him to a vending machine in the corner. He stood there awkwardly for a moment until he saw her making an odd gesture with her head that after another few seconds he realized was meant to signal him to join her.

“Need change?” he asked.

Irene rolled her eyes. “I love you, John, but honestly.” And she shook her head.

“Well . . . How did you get back to Weald House?”

“I had Jeremy come get me.”

“The rings?”

“Harry had Sherl’s in her room. Mycroft must still have yours in his pocket. I can get it, but . . . Where is he?”

“Went up to see Sherlock.”

She gave a little nod. Stopped to actually buy a soda. “Car keys,” she said, slipping them into John’s pocket. “I put your bags in the trunk. Er, boot?” she corrected.

“Thanks. He’ll need something to wear out of the hospital, though.”

Irene grimaced and slowly began to walk back toward where the others were sitting. “Might look a little strange to walk in with a bundle of clothes.” Then her eyes lit up as an idea obviously struck. “The gift shop!”

“What about it?”

“Buy something. Something big enough to need a fair sized bag. You can carry his clothes up in a bag from the gift shop.”

“Why not any other bag?” John asked.

“Because if you bring in a duffel, it’s bound to get noticed,” said Irene. “Come on. Let’s go pick something.”

John glanced back at where his father and Patrick were now deep in conversation, and Harry was once again oblivious to everything around her, then followed Irene to the hospital gift shop.

~*~

“A TEDDY BEAR?” John found himself asking a short while later.

“It’s big enough,” Irene said. “Everything else is magazines and cards and flowers.”

“He’s going to hate it,” said John as he peered into the bag at the large and very white stuffed animal.

“It doesn’t matter because you’re not giving it to him,” Irene reminded him. “You’re taking it out to the car and swapping it for clothes.”

“Then what do I do with the bear?”

Irene stopped walking and looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“I just feel sorry for it is all,” John told her.

“You’re too sweet for your own good,” said Irene. “Fine. I’ll take it and give it a good home.” She snatched the bag from him and led the way out to the car park where a deep blue Alfa Romeo Brera waited.

“Really?” John asked.

“He said to get one of the fast ones. This looked fast.”

“And also remarkably easy to spot.”

“We all know where you live, John,” Irene said. “You’re not going underground. You might as well have some fun.” She pulled the bear free and handed the empty bag to him.

John took the keys from his pocket and opened the boot, found Sherlock’s clothes, and stuffed them into the bag. As he closed up the car, he asked, “What will you name him?”

“Hm?” asked Irene, and John saw she’d been somewhere else entirely. He nodded at the bear she was clutching with more force than she realized. “Oh!” Irene said as if surprised to be holding it. “I don’t know . . .”

“Sherlock?”

Irene laughed. “There’s only one Sherlock. John maybe.”

“There are plenty of Johns.”

“No,” said Irene with a rueful shake of her head. “There’s only one.” She shifted the bear to one arm and hooked John’s with her free hand. “Come on. Let’s go rescue the hospital staff from your boyfriend.”


	16. Chapter 16

MYCROFT WAS STANDING near the foot of Sherlock’s bed when Irene burst into the room, followed by a more staid John. When Irene spotted Mycroft she brightened visibly and announced, “I have something for you!” as she came at him with the teddy bear.

Mycroft took a half step back, looking at the bear as if it were something poisonous.

From the bed, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I believe the custom is to bring gifts to the person who’s been injured.”

Irene, meanwhile, was not to be denied; she thrust the bear at Mycroft so vigorously, he had no choice but to take it or let it fall at his feet. He looked so incongruous standing there with the oversized stuffed animal between his hands (he didn’t go so far as to clutch it so much as hold it away from himself as though to keep it from shedding on his suit), that John was forced to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Mycroft scowled down at the petite redhead now standing directly in front of him, but she only continued to beam like a self-satisfied child awaiting praise.

“It doesn’t work,” Sherlock warned his brother. “No amount of frowning stops her.”

Mycroft transferred the scowl from Irene to his brother.

“It doesn’t work on me, either.”

So Mycroft turned and set the bear at the foot of the bed, leaving it to stare at Sherlock.

Irene’s expression morphed into disappointment. “You don’t like it?”

And for the first time ever, John witnessed Mycroft at a complete loss. Though if any person on the planet could test the limits of a gentleman’s patience and good manners, John supposed it would be Irene. “It’s . . .” Mycroft began, but that was as far as he managed to get; he turned his frown on the bear, seeming to blame it for his inability to produce a suitable response.

“It’s nice, yes, but I have nowhere to put it,” Mycroft finally said.

“Oh, we’ll find someplace,” Irene assured him. She scooped up the bear once more and took a startled Mycroft by the arm, all but dragging him to the door. “You’re staying here, I guess, John?”

“For a bit, yeah,” John said. “’Til they toss me out, anyway.”

Mycroft looked back over his shoulder, understanding now that this was some kind of prank. But John had already pocketed the ring Irene had left in place of the bear, thus secreting the evidence.

“He doesn’t even know what hit him,” John remarked once they’d gone.

“Irene has that effect on people,” said Sherlock.

John held up the bag he’d almost forgotten he was carrying. “Clothes.” He set the bag within Sherlock’s reach and went to the closet to retrieve the stolen coat. When he turned around, he found Sherlock ripping out the tubes in his left arm. “Don’t just—” John said, striding over and shutting off the drips.

But Sherlock had thrown off his sheet and was easing himself off the side of the bed to standing. John watched him closely for signs of discomfort, and Sherlock did grimace a bit, but he otherwise gave no outward indication he might be in pain. Not surprising, John reasoned; if he bothered to check the IV bags, he was certain one would be a painkiller. Without it, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock began to feel the aftermath of his injury.

_And then what?_ John wondered. But he supposed they would deal with it when it happened, in typical Sherlockian fashion.

Sherlock tested his balance, gingerly shifting weight from one foot to the other. He felt the tightness and pulling on his left side, and morbid curiosity made him want to look. But of course the wound was covered by a bandage.

“What are you—?” John asked incredulously. He grabbed a fistful of the curtain that had been pushed against the wall and yanked it along the track in the ceiling to shield the bed from the door in case anyone should walk in. “Don’t fiddle with it, just get dressed.”

Sherlock complied in silence, was buttoning his shirt and contemplating his bare feet, when John said suddenly, “We shouldn’t do this.”

Sherlock glanced back at the wreckage of his hospital bed—the abandoned IV tubes, crumpled sheet, discarded gown—and replied, “It’s a bit late now. Where are my shoes?”

“No, I mean,” John said, using his index finger to indicate the two of them, “we shouldn’t do this.” And when Sherlock only frowned uncomprehendingly, John explained, “You’re used to more . . . sophisticated . . .”

Sherlock was glancing around as if expecting his footwear to materialize. “You forgot them, didn’t you?”

John sighed. “Yes, I guess I did,” he answered, making it sound as if this fact somehow proved a point.

“John.” Sherlock made the name sound heavy, like a cement block being hefted onto a table. “You are the only person I’ve ever met who openly admires my talents and doesn’t think I’m a complete ass.”

John blinked. “I _know_ you’re a complete ass,” he said, “but I can’t seem to help liking you anyway.”

“You _like_ me.”

John blushed and looked away. “Will you be all right barefoot, or should I run out and fetch your shoes?”

“You’re not a dog, John. I’ll be fine.” He held out a hand as if expecting something.

And John stared at the hand as if expecting something. Though when nothing happened, he asked, “What?”

“Car keys?”

“You’re not driving,” said John.

Sherlock withdrew the hand as if he’d been bitten.

“Whatever painkiller you were on is going to wear off soon enough, and you’ll be in no condition to operate machinery,” John went on.

“And you might just as easily fall asleep at the wheel,” Sherlock pointed out. They stared at one another. Then Sherlock asked, “You _like_ me?”

“I love you, actually,” John said and was gratified to see Sherlock’s shoulders relax. Had he been worried that John’s answer might be different? “It’s just . . . Christopher was a model, and Patrick dresses like one, and I . . .” John looked down at his old jeans and faded shirt. “I’m not and I don’t.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m that superficial,” said Sherlock, without bitterness, but instead sounding honestly aggrieved.

“No!” John said. “But you could do so much better. Have done.”

And now Sherlock appeared truly confused. “There is no one better.”

“But they’re so . . . worldly, I guess. God, even Irene is more stylish than I am,” John realized, the idea suddenly depressing him.

“I’m not looking for what I already have, John. I can do stylish and sophisticated all on my own. I want the person who can save me when I’ve been shot, the one who’ll go looking for me when I’m lost, someone who reminds me to eat and lets me pretend to be brave when the truth is the only reason I’m not terrified is that he’s standing next to me. That’s you.”

John stared. “Did you memorize that?” he asked at length. “Were those your vows?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They might as well have been. Can we go home now?”

John nodded numbly, pushed the curtain out of the way, and led the way to the door.

~*~

 

AFTER NAVIGATING THE labyrinthine hallways of the hospital, they escaped via an entrance on the west side, thus avoiding the waiting area where everyone else had gathered. John didn’t know how long Mycroft and the others intended to stay—in fact, maybe they’d gone already—but it didn’t seem worth risking. Though it did mean a longer walk to the car park for Sherlock’s bare feet.

They arrived at the car, and as they settled in John began to dread the notion of having to sustain a conversation. It seemed ridiculous, but after all the lovely things Sherlock had just said to him, John felt pressure to come up with something equally eloquent. He hadn’t planned anything for the ceremony, and now he felt empty and unprepared, as if sitting for an exam for which he hadn’t studied. Words weren’t John’s strength (his now defunct blog proved that much); he was better at doing things to show he cared.

Like breaking people out of hospitals when by every metric they should stay put.

So as he threw the car into gear, John searched for something to say. He decided it would be best to simply be honest. Meat and potatoes, as it were. Hold the garnish. He took a deep breath and turned to Sherlock . . .

. . . Who was fast asleep.

John wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

He tried to focus on the road; it was dark now, and Sherlock had been right in suggesting John might fall asleep while driving, tired as he was. But he also couldn’t help taking in little glances at the man sleeping next to him. John liked watching Sherlock sleep, always had, though it embarrassed him even to admit it to himself. There was something lovely about how blank Sherlock’s face became, how quiet his features, the eyes closed instead of constantly roving, looking for input. Sherlock looked sweet when asleep, young and soft and inanimate, like someone in a painting by Leighton or Jones.

_Well now_ , John thought, _you have some poetry in you after all._ Not that he’d ever have the courage to say any of it. Sherlock, on the other hand, never thought about what he said; it all came out unfiltered, sometimes for the worse. But now and again—like that night—his words were beautiful. And the shame of it was Sherlock never knew the difference.

But maybe that didn’t matter. After all, the words weren’t for him; Sherlock cast them off and out like so much useless weight, like stones found in a pocket. And if one was diamond, what of it? Sherlock had no more use for it than any other rock.

John glanced over again but resisted the urge to reach out and touch Sherlock’s cheek. Not because it would wake him (it wouldn’t), but because, given the badly lit country road, the touchy way the Alfa Romeo drove, and John being tired, it didn’t seem wise to take a hand off the wheel.

They reached Baker Street a couple hours later, and Sherlock was still asleep. John didn’t look forward to waking him; Sherlock was always irritable when roused from a deep slumber. Maybe he could just finish off his nap in the car and come inside after?

But even as John was opening his door and telling himself that, no, he couldn’t leave Sherlock in the car, Sherlock opened his eyes. Started to sit up, then drew up short, his face contorting in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

“You all right?” John asked, looking in from the driver’s side.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, but he sounded strained. He pushed open the door with more force than was really necessary, sucked in a breath, and launched himself free of the car. After closing the door, he leaned forward against the side, gathering his reserves for the next move. “The rings?” he asked.

“What?” John’s head appeared over the open boot. He got a look at Sherlock’s white-faced grimace and said, “Let’s get you inside.”

“Where are the rings?” Sherlock insisted.

“In my pocket.” John came over and slipped an arm around Sherlock to ease him away from the support of the car. “Come on,” he said, as if coaxing a small dog.

Sherlock allowed it, and in slow, painful steps was guided to the pavement. “Call Lestrade,” he told John. “Have him bring the Register.”

“What, now?” John asked as he released his hold, though he stayed close to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t falter.

“Get Mrs. Hudson, too. She’s probably still awake, on the phone and gossiping about what happened at the ceremony.”

“It’s almost midnight,” John said.

“Then we’d best be quick,” said Sherlock. “This is our wedding day.”

~*~

AND SO THIS is how Sherlock Holmes, his feet bare and dirty and his left side burning with flares of pain, and John Watson, dressed in shabby jeans and a faded t-shirt, found themselves exchanging rings in their flat on Baker Street in London. And while the Register—himself tired and addled by having Inspector Lestrade drag him from his bed—put the date on the paperwork as the last day of July, it was actually three past midnight when it was all said and done, which would lead to many years of debate between Sherlock and John as to whether their anniversary was in July or August.

Mrs. Hudson made tea and brought up biscuits with additional promises of a cake on the morrow. Lestrade did not bother to hide his disapproval that Sherlock had exited the hospital well before what he would have considered proper, though he begrudgingly acknowledged he understood the reasons for it. He did not mention Eoin, and no one asked. Lestrade lingered until it became clear the Register might very well fall asleep on the sofa, at which point the inspector took his leave so that he could return the old man to his rightful bed.

Once they’d shooed their landlady from the flat, John and Sherlock collapsed next to one another on the sofa, though Sherlock almost immediately winced from the stabbing sensation this caused, shifting to try and find a comfortable way to sit. John frowned, his face lined with both exhaustion and concern. “I can give you some ibuprofen for that,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t keep anything stronger any more, but I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow and get you something.”

Sherlock only nodded. John brought him the highest dose he felt would be both safe and effective, along with a glass of water. “Your room is still piled with all your things, so . . .” John trailed off when he saw the odd look Sherlock was giving him. He waited a moment, but Sherlock didn’t speak, so John continued, “You sleep in my room, and I’ll stay on the sofa for the night.”

“Ours,” Sherlock intoned quietly.

John didn’t follow. “What?”

“It’s all ours now, John. There is no your room or my room.”

This hadn’t occurred to John. “Oh,” he said and blinked a few times. “It’s just . . . You keep things . . .”

“Things I haven’t had access to in over two years,” said Sherlock. “Things that were, for all intents and purposes, yours, and will be again if and when I actually die.” He looked hard at John now. “You’re going to have to get past whatever bothers you about my possessions. You took to Weald House easily enough.”

“I didn’t want to intrude,” said John.

“It’s a little late on that score,” Sherlock told him. But he was smiling just a little.

“And you get mad when I move your things around,” John pointed out.

“Because then I can never find them,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t think it’s out of the way to suggest looking on the bookshelf for a book.”

“That book was in the freezer for a reason.”

They lapsed into silence, but it was of the companionable sort, the kind that came with hard-won victories and well-earned fatigue. In fact, they were very close to falling asleep where they sat except Sherlock’s side protested when he began to slump. “Christ,” he hissed, “when does the medicine kick in?”

John stirred. “Takes about thirty minutes.” He rose and offered Sherlock his hand so that he could stand too. “You should go lie down at least.”

“Not without you,” said Sherlock as he took John’s hand and pulled himself up.

But John shook his head. “That’s not a good idea. It’s bad enough I agreed to take you out of the hospital; I don’t want anything to compromise you.”

Sherlock leaned close to John’s ear. “I’d like very much for you to compromise me.”

John felt a flush running up his body like so much heat, and he swayed a little closer to Sherlock as if drawn by a magnet. But he stood his ground. “Let’s see how you’re feeling after you get some sleep.”

Sherlock tilted his head just slightly, and John recognized the expression on his face—it was the same calculating look Sherlock got when formulating a way to catch someone in a lie, or else trick them into telling the truth. “Well . . .”

John eyed him warily.

“You should at least check my ribs, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked.

And John could think of no good excuse to refuse.

 

~*~

_Six Weeks Later_

THE WRITE-UP IN the guidebook read:

WEALD HOUSE

Also known as the Holmes-Watson house, Weald House was built in 1760 by Charles Baskerville of the neighboring Corring estate as a wedding gift to his daughter Sophie Baskerville Knill. In 1843, Robert Baskerville deeded the house to Siger Holmes as a form of payment for Holmes’ help with an unspecified problem at Corring Hall. Currently owned by Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. All proceeds from tours and events held at Weald House go directly toward upkeep of the house and grounds. Housekeeper Maude Grossman bakes fresh scones daily, and the Christmas festivities are not to be missed. Owner occupied May 1–August 31. Open Sept 1–April 30 for house tours, guided horseback rides and special occasions.

“NEW GUIDEBOOK IS in,” said John, dropping it on the table. “And Mrs. Grossman says the new painting has been put up in the long gallery.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied. He sat on the sofa surrounded by socks, which he diligently held up one at a time before sorting them into two separate piles.

John watched him for a while, hoping for a clue so he wouldn’t have to ask, but he finally gave up. “What are you doing?”

“Sorting the socks.”

“Right,” John said slowly. “It doesn’t really require that much concentration. I buy them in packs; they’re all the same.”

“Hardly,” said Sherlock as he examined a heel. He stopped to look at John. “You tend to stand with your weight on your left leg, so your left socks have more wear and discoloration.”

“You’re sorting them into left and right,” John clarified.

“And then I can match them by stains . . .” Sherlock murmured as he returned to sorting. “Make sure they’re mated properly.”

“I think it may be time to get you out of the flat,” said John. They’d spent the past six weeks more or less at home, though John had visited the clinic for Sherlock’s medication, and had even brought him in for additional x-rays. And of course John had done some shopping, though they still ordered take away more often than they cooked.

Mycroft had come to visit on a number of occasions and had returned Sherlock’s computer though his department continued to clean up what was left of Moriarty’s syndicate. Lestrade, too, had been by, ostensibly for opinions on investigations he was heading up, though John suspected the inspector was more concerned for Sherlock’s wellbeing than he liked to admit. And Irene had stopped in on her way to the airport; she had flown home to New York after being offered a role in a production of _Anything Goes_. As a parting shot she’d warned them that their lovingly decorated honeymoon suite at Weald House was still waiting for whenever they chose to return.

“Are you going on a honeymoon?” Irene had asked, and Sherlock and John had exchanged a glance before declaring, “No!”

This was their honeymoon, John supposed, cocooned away from everything and everyone. Which had been fine for a while, but boredom was beginning to take its toll on Sherlock, whose experiments were becoming increasingly dangerous—and smelly. And this was the first time John had ever seen him stoop to handling laundry of any kind.

“Just a walk, even,” John suggested.

“After I’m finished,” said Sherlock. “What on earth did you step in with this one?”

“Okay, you know what?” John asked, snatching the sock from Sherlock’s grasp. He began swiftly pairing the footwear and in less than a minute had them done. “There.”

“All that work . . .” Sherlock said, “and you just . . .”

“Come on, we’re going out.”

Sherlock sighed but complied by rising. He moved with greater ease these days, though he still suffered the occasional twinge. Now as he paused, John turned to him with a small frown. “All right?”

But Sherlock had picked up the guidebook, flipped it open to the marked page. “Who says we’re staying there from May to August?”

John shrugged. “We don’t have to. But the house will be closed then in any case.”

“And what’s this about Christmas?”

“We’re going out now. We can talk about it later.”

Sherlock returned the book to the table and followed John to the door.

“Maybe something interesting will turn up soon,” John said. “We can ask Lestrade if he needs help with anything.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock, looking over his shoulder at the socks.

“Or Mycroft.”

“No,” Sherlock said.

John pulled open the door. Froze as he realized something about it wasn’t right. Then opened it the rest of the way.

Sherlock drew himself up, alert now. “Well, that’s something.”

An ivory-handled penknife held a card to the door.

“Don’t touch it,” Sherlock said when John reached out. Sherlock stepped around him for a better look. “Tarot card.”

“What does it mean?” John asked.

“No idea,” Sherlock admitted. Having examined the item in situ to his satisfaction, he yanked the knife free and the card fluttered to the floor.

Knowing that Sherlock still had difficulty bending over, John reached down to retrieve it. “The Tower,” he read as he handed it to his companion. _Husband_ , he reminded himself; he still wasn’t used to it.

Sherlock glanced at the card then slipped it into his pocket. “Come on then.”

“Don’t you want to do some research or something?” asked John.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Sherlock told him. “For now, let’s walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is the end of the series.**
> 
> ________________________
> 
> Original End Notes from when these were written/posted c. 2010:
> 
> This was originally just the one story, “The Obstructed View,” though clearly it ballooned. And I didn’t at first intend to bring John and Sherlock into an intimate relationship, though that ended up seeming to be the natural progression.
> 
> At the start, the fundamental idea was simply that Sherlock might have a little crush on his flatmate. This thesis, compounded by Moriarty’s promise at the end of “The Great Game” to “burn the heart out of” Sherlock, gave me the basis for the first story. I also allowed a couple other key scenes from that episode inform my work; namely, the scene in which Jim is introduced and the one in which John says Sherlock and Moriarty “would be very happy together.” I especially like the scene in which “Jim from IT” appears because after he leaves it seems that Sherlock makes an effort to rededicate himself to John. Sherlock’s agitation in the last scene can also be taken as telling of how important John has become to him.
> 
> I’ve clearly played fast and loose with key characters from canon (the Baskervilles, Irene Adler), but I had fun adapting them, as well as introducing others such as the extended Holmes and Watson families. Of course, now that the second series is being filmed, it stands to reason that all this will soon become so much apocrypha. Some other dimension, perhaps. But if it has served to entertain in the meantime, if it has filled the gap between series, then I can count these stories a success.
> 
> Special gratitude to my faithful readers and reviewers on FanFiction.net; if not for their continual encouragement, I might have dropped this exercise entirely. Instead, thanks to them, one story became a lucky seven.
> 
> ______________________
> 
> Equal thanks to readers here on AO3 who encouraged me to re-post these stories on this site.
> 
> When I originally wrote these, I had a fair number of angry readers who did not like that Sherlock and John eventually ended up in a romantic relationship. That is why I labeled the stories M/M from the start, even though the relationship doesn't develop until later in the series. I wanted readers to know what they were getting into.


End file.
